No More Mr. Nice Guy (5 page)

Blinking sleepily at the clock, she noted that she had, thank heaven, fifteen minutes before the child would arrive. She flopped down on the rug with the little girl’s speech folder in her hand. The file absorbed her attention for a moment. Born with a hearing problem, Cathy had angelic blue eyes and a froth of blond curls. She was four. Five months ago, when her mother had first brought her in, Cathy had taken one look at Carroll and screamed bloody murder. The mother had been beside herself.

Carroll had not. Most kids hated speech therapy and with reason. A child who had failed to talk built up a fear of trying to speak, and that was exactly what Carroll had to ask her students to do—try. Risk failing. Fail. Try again, and again, and again. Speech was easy to teach. Building self-confidence in children with fragile egos was the tough job, and Carroll loved it.

But right now she couldn’t keep her mind on Cathy for more than three seconds at a time. Alan’s face kept intruding on her consciousness. She hadn’t gotten home last night until after two, and then she’d gone home to a lonely bed.
Not
what she’d been expecting when they’d left the medical conference.

A wistful smile curved her lips. She still felt hung over from laughter. On a lover’s lane, they’d shared embarrassing stories from when they were kids, critiqued nearly all the flavors on the Baskin-Robbins’ ice cream menu, shared other passions and peeves…heck, she didn’t know what they’d talked about. They’d just talked and kept on talking.

Somewhere between 1:30 and 1:35 a.m., Carroll had come up with the amazing discovery that there was a tremendous difference between loving someone and being in love. She’d always loved Alan. Alan was easy to love. But last night she’d watched herself doing things that no sane person would do. Laughing at stories that couldn’t possibly be funny to anyone else. Not caring that the hours were ticking by when she knew she had to work in the morning. Enjoying an awareness that her body was perpetually turned on just from being in the same universe with him…

She didn’t have masses of sexual experience, but she’d used the word
love
before and meant it. Still. Something had always been missing—not loving, not the ability to love, but that crazy, yearning, restless feeling of being
in
love.

A scrub brush probably couldn’t wipe the silly smile off her face. Helplessly, she yawned again and tried to get serious. When a shadow darkened the doorway, she looked up, prepared to see Cathy, and instead saw the reason for her silly smile.

Alan looked wretched. There were pouches beneath his eyes; the lines around them showed white as they always did when he was overtired; and under his jacket, he was wearing a shirt she’d never seen before—a red shirt. Not his color. It didn’t matter. Six whole hours they’d been separated, far too long in her current state of lunacy. She smiled. He smiled back. “Hi,” she said softly.

“Hi back.”

Rather abruptly, she remembered that she was a mature, rational woman and leaped to her feet. “Alan, what on earth are you doing here?”

“Came to see you.” He stifled an exhausted yawn, and reached for the buttons of his jacket. “It occurred to me last night how often you’d seen my office—when I’d never seen where you work. I’ve wanted to for weeks, Caro. And I was pretty sure you’d told me you were always here on Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday mornings and that the school encouraged visitors…”

“We do. We don’t want the kids to feel isolated or different, and having lots of people around can help them feel less sensitive about their problems.” She stopped abruptly; the subject couldn’t be less relevant. “Alan, you must have had patients this morning.”

“I did. One came very early, two canceled and one was rescheduled for this afternoon.” He tugged off his jacket, looked for a place to hang it. The only option appeared to be a child-size coat tree. His sleeves trailed on the floor. “You don’t mind if I come in and watch you, do you?”

“No, of course not, but…” She saw her hands fluttering up, and stopped them. There was no reason to be flustered. She was delighted he was here, just surprised. “I’m afraid I haven’t got a very exciting schedule this morning. If I’d known you wanted to come, I’d have asked you on a day when I had something more interesting. We’ve got some fantastic new testing equipment—”

“But then, I didn’t come to see equipment. I came to see you.” Since he certainly hadn’t a prayer of sleeping the night before, he’d spent the wee hours of the morning alternately reading a book called
Love Foods for Successful Lovers
and making a list of ways to woo Carroll. One of the things on that list was coming here.

Watching her work hadn’t exactly fit his list of heroic, exciting things a man should do for his woman, but it did have to do with love. Not just loving her, but proving it to her. He really was interested in her work and always had been, but the night before, it had occurred to him that he’d failed to
show
her his interest. “I promise not to get in your way.”

“I wasn’t worried about that.”

He glanced around. “Where do you want me to sit?”

“Umm.” She gave him an apologetic glance. “On the floor, I’m afraid. Or I could bring in a chair for you…”

“I’ll be just fine right here,” he assured her, and settled cross-legged on the far corner of her red rug.

She looked at him uncertainly. “That isn’t going to be comfortable.”

“Sure it is.”

“Are you positive? I mean…”

A little girl poked her head in the doorway; she was dressed in OshKosh overalls and a fuzzy purple sweater. Alan’s heart turned over, seeing the hearing aids in her ears. She wasn’t much bigger than a minute, and she took one look at him and hurled herself at Carroll.

Carroll was prepared, arms ready to swing her up in a hug. There wasn’t a sound for a few minutes, as the two carried on a rapid conversation in sign. Alan gathered very quickly that he was unwanted, that the child knew whatever was in the white bag on the shelf was a treat for her, and that she was in the habit of collecting a favorite stuffed animal from the corner before they started work.

He cleared his throat in embarrassment. In coming here, he’d wanted to show Carroll he cared about her work. It had stupidly never occurred to him that his presence might make her job more difficult.

“Doughnuts
after
speech,” Carroll insisted finally. “Down we go, Cathy. Work time…but first I want you to meet Alan.” The child pulled tighter on her arms. Carroll shot Alan a wink and smoothly rushed on. “Alan brought some orange juice just for you this morning,
and
some doughnuts. He’s having problems with his
s’
s
,
and you’re getting so good with them I thought you could help him.”

The little girl looked suspiciously at Alan, who nodded gravely. Slowly, she consented to being slid out of Carroll’s arms to the floor. She made another gesture in sign to Carroll, who firmly shook her head.

“From now on, we’re going to communicate in speech.”

Orange juice was served, spilled, cleaned up and put aside. By then the blond urchin was batting her eyelashes at Alan and edging closer. Fifteen minutes later, the tyke was sitting on his lap, and they were both pretending they were snakes, making long hissing sounds.

“No, not quite,” Carroll said gently. “Watch my mouth now. Watch my teeth. See how my teeth come together when I make the
s
sound?”

Alan watched her mouth. He watched her teeth. He made
s
sounds. Then
k
sounds. And then
d
sounds.

An hour later, Cathy was succeeded by Melissa, who had a lisp. At midmorning, Melissa was succeeded by Philip, a gangly six-year-old with a milk mustache, who had a tendency to stammer. Then there was Jimmy, who couldn’t master the
l
sound.

At first, Alan was fascinated. Carroll was such a pro. Nothing shook her. Melissa insisted on working upside down—literally standing on her head. Philip dissolved in tears. Carroll battled discouragement, temper tantrums, fragile egos and plain stubbornness. She was the most beautiful battle-ax of a teacher he’d ever come across, he thought lovingly. Nothing deterred her from smoothly, gently prodding the recalcitrant little ones into mastering their speech lessons. At first amused that she’d made him part of her class, he understood shortly thereafter that he’d better toe the line. Helping the children came first. He had no doubts that she’d make the President of the United States sit down on the carpet and practice consonants if he dared to darken the door.

After several hours, though, Alan’s legs were cramped, he’d earned two rainbow stickers on his wrists, and the tedium of repetition was getting to him. As lunchtime neared, he was dying. His right leg had developed a charley horse. His jaw ached from forming sounds. He’d had three cups of orange juice spilled on him.

“Llllll,”
Caro repeated. “Make the tip of your tongue touch the roof of your mouth, Jimmy. There now, look at Alan. See how his tongue tickles the top of his mouth?”

Alan obediently demonstrated by parting his lips and making his tongue touch the roof of his mouth for the fifteenth time. He was going to last the rest of the morning. He
was.
He was interested in her work, and he was going to prove it to her. In the meantime, he tried to stretch his cramped leg. Jimmy, looking for any excuse to be distracted, stopped working to frown at him. Alan kept his leg exactly where it was, and refrained from looking at his watch.

Finally, the boy left. Carroll bounced up from the carpet with a brilliant smile. “He did it, didn’t he?” she crowed. “He came in here believing he’d never master that sound!”

“
You
did it,” Alan corrected.

She waved her hand dismissively. “
He
did,” she insisted, and stood there gloating so hard he wanted to kiss her.

“Who’s next?” he asked instead.

“No one—lunchtime.”

“Darn.” He shook his head and slowly, carefully, straightened his legs so he could stand up without pain. Blood cascaded to his feet in an icy waterfall of feeling.

“You really enjoyed it, Alan? You weren’t bored?” Her eyes danced with both eagerness and sudden anxiety.

“Bored, are you kidding? I just can’t believe how fast the morning went. Only wish I could stay for the afternoon session.” The fibs rolled glibly from his tongue. Who cared? He couldn’t stop looking at her. Caro was glowing, within, without, all over.

“I know you can’t. You’ve got appointments; I never expected you to spare this much time.” She sprinted over to him and surged up on tiptoe for a kiss. “Thank you for coming,” she said softly.

She tasted like orange juice, sticky fingers, and Caro. She’d also rarely been the first one to offer a kiss. “Dinner tomorrow.” He kissed her nose. “My place.” He kissed her chin. “Pick you up at seven?”

“I’ll be ready.”

Outside, Alan hauled fresh air into his lungs and turned his face up toward the sunlight. Then he strode to his car with a step that was uncontrollably cocky, cramped muscles or no cramped muscles. It was working. He was going to win her. He was even beginning to enjoy turning himself inside out to do it. And if Caro liked surprises, he had a few more up his sleeve.

He was determined to grow old beside that woman, and just as determined to make her happy.

At seven-thirty the next evening, Carroll stepped ahead of Alan into his apartment. “You still didn’t say who was cooking tonight…as if I didn’t know,” she said teasingly.

“So you
think
you know. As it happens, the kitchen is completely off limits to you tonight.” Alan hung up both their coats, casting a critical eye on his living room.

Everything was set up as planned, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it just wasn’t enough. The picnic lunch, the roses, necking in a deserted hallway—they’d worked. Carroll was blossoming in front of his eyes. Unfortunately, the small successes had made him see that huge ones might be possible if he could just manage this business of courting her properly. If he was man enough. If he could completely change,
be
a different kind of man for her…

He caught her soft spaniel-brown eyes on him, banished his lingering worries, and grinned. “I see that look in your eyes, but you’re dead wrong, kitten,” he said lazily. “I not only cooked dinner, but it’s ready and waiting for us.”

Dropping her purse on an end table, she raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I see. You’ve hired a catering service,” she said blandly.

“No.”

“Your mother came over earlier to put something in the oven while you were picking me up?”

“No.”

“Good Lord. You’ve kidnapped some poor woman, and you have her tied to the stove?”

“No.”
He planted a kiss on the tip of her nose, a delectable nose that was just a little pink from the cold outside. Her lips were equally tempting, and if her eyes didn’t stop reflecting shy invitations, he was going to be completely diverted from his higher purpose. Dammit, a true hero should be able to get his mind off making love to her for at least two minutes at a time. A true hero would successfully whet his lover’s sensual appetite until her need was beyond control and her desire reached a fever pitch…exactly what he wanted to do.

Exactly what he was
going
to do if it killed him. Teasingly, he patted her fanny. “You can stop looking so sassy. I’ve discovered over the last two weeks that any man can learn to cook.”

“I’m terribly sorry for doubting you,” Carroll said gravely, and resigned herself to a burned dinner. Alan was a whiz at making toast. To give him full credit, he wasn’t bad at ordering a pizza or bringing in Chinese food, either.

It hardly mattered, when dinner was the last thing on her mind. Alan was wearing a pirate-style black shirt she’d never seen before. She was becoming used to the new and unexpected additions to his wardrobe; reading the new sensual look in his eyes was something else. One minute they were laughing and talking the way they always had; the next she felt lavishly, mysteriously studied by those rich blue eyes of his. It was enough to make a sensible woman’s toes tingle.

Weeks before, she would have scoffed at the thought. These days she was inclined to sweep a lot of issues under the rug because of those toes, yet her feelings weren’t frivolous but fragile. His continued attentions made her feel loved as she’d never imagined feeling loved. She wasn’t so egotistical as to think she was as fascinating, beautiful and scintillating as Alan’s eyes kept assuring her she was, but inside she felt newly rich, as though every nerve ending now had a coating of luster.

“Now just relax, kick off your shoes and prepare for a feast,” Alan called over his shoulder. “You’re not allowed in the kitchen—I’ll bring you a glass of tequila.”

“Tequila?” They both liked a can of beer during a football game and an occasional glass of wine with dinner. Tequila, never. “Alan, you haven’t been experimenting with any fancy Mexican sauces, have you?” she asked with alarm.

Alan was bringing her a frosted glass of tequila with a layer of salt on the rim.
“Will
you sit down and trust me?” he scolded before disappearing into the kitchen again. “It’s
not
retried beans,” he called back by way of reassurance.

Hmm. Still standing, Carroll took a sip from the glass, shuddered, and stared at the misleadingly innocuous clear liquid. It was pure and simple firewater…and it left a faint dusting of salt on her upper lip.

Maybe it was the sting of the tequila, but her eyes abruptly started playing tricks on her. Alan’s apartment was normally as familiar as her own. A bay window looked onto a courtyard; his walls were cream-colored stucco; and his traditional furniture in brown and cream reflected comfort and neatness—except for the bookshelf crammed with medical journals.

Carroll took another sip of the tequila, and let her tongue make a delicate swipe at the salt residue on her lip. The room hadn’t drastically changed, but her eyes were drawn with startling speed to the huge new oil painting that hung over his couch. As she studied the picture, the impressionistic blur of siennas and golds and flesh tones gradually settled into the shapes of a naked man and woman. And the longer she stared at it, the more obvious it became that the man and woman weren’t playing tiddlywinks.

Heavens. Her gaze swiftly took in the rest of the room. All clutter had disappeared. His medical books and journals had been neatly put away. The only printed material left casually out was an expensive book of prints bound in hand-tooled leather. Orientals prints. Erotic Oriental prints. Alan never looked at that kind of thing.

Or maybe he did.

Absently, she rubbed a finger on her temple. Over the past two weeks, she realized that she’d been unfair to ever peg Alan into a predictable slot. And there was no question that she relished the discovery of dimensions in him—and in herself—she hadn’t known about before, but occasionally she felt…well…lost. She never knew what he was going to do next, and just a little of that old predictability would have been nice to hold on to. Not that he wasn’t entitled to buy an oil or look at sultry nudes if he wanted to.

And maybe he’d suddenly developed a liking for pillows, because there were two huge rust-colored velvet ones on the floor. Put together, they were almost large enough to make a mattress. And next to them was a black onyx tray with three candles on it.

Carroll’s eyes narrowed on the ripples of wax and charred wicks of the candles. They’d clearly been used. If Alan had been anyone but Alan, she might have immediately jumped to the suspicious conclusion that used candles and floor pillows and a suggestive painting on the wall added up to another woman in his life. She did not come to that conclusion; she simply took another rapid sip of tequila. She trusted Alan. Totally.

“You’ve been making a few changes around here,” she called out conversationally.

“A few. An old friend did the painting. Like it?”

As long as his old friend was a man, she liked it just fine. “Colorful,” she murmured dryly.

“Didn’t hear you?”

“Very nice,” she called back. “Is your artist friend anyone I know?”

He smiled by way of answer as he carried in a large tray from the kitchen. “You haven’t been making yourself comfortable,” he chided. “This is a shoes-off kind of dinner. I told you.”

“Yes.” She studied the tray as she obediently slipped off her shoes, well aware Alan was lighting the three candles and switching out the other lights. The tequila suddenly settled in her stomach with a tattoo of Hello there, Nerves.

So this was finally the night? But then, she’d known it was, and she wanted it to be; that was why she was wearing brand-new French panties and a violet bra under her sweater and slacks, why she’d bathed in perfumed water. And if she’d had any doubts that Alan was in the mood, he’d dispelled them with the kiss when he’d picked her up. That kiss was from a man who was tired of waiting.

She’d responded like a woman who was tired of making him wait, but the tray in his hands was almost as diverting as the nude oil on the wall. “Alan, what is this?” Following his lead, she settled on the carpet with one of the huge pillows behind her.

“Tapas. They call them ‘the small foods of Spain.’ You’re going to love these, Caro.” He pointed to each small plate on the tray, identifying the delicacies. “Quail with a thyme sauce. Rolled anchovy fillets on picks. Poached squid in a hot tomato sauce. Wild mushrooms, raw oysters and cactus paddles.”

“Sounds wonderful.” She gave him a brilliant smile, her heart sinking. He’d gone to so much trouble. Every dish had been artfully arranged, all for her, but she didn’t have the fortitude to swallow an anchovy. As for the rest…

“Thought it would be more fun to picnic on the carpet. Wait until you taste, kitten.”

She was more than willing to wait, but he nudged a tidbit toward her lips. She clamped down, chewed delicately and reached quickly for the tequila, trying not to make the move appear violent or desperate. “That must be the squid?”

He nodded. “I figured I’d experiment with one kind of foreign food a week. For next week, I found an entire cookbook full of recipes from Tibet; they call for spices I’d never even heard of. Anyway, Spanish tonight. Like it?”

“Mmm.” To get her mind off the squid, she motioned to the pillows. “I should have some pillows like these in the classroom. The kids would love them. I don’t know if I told you about this little Miranda I’ve been working with, but—”

“Carroll?”

“Hmm?” She looked up, smiling.

“No,” he said, gently but firmly. “Another time I’ll hear about her, sweet. But tonight we’re not going to talk about kids or work or anything…except us.” He watched her lips form a delicate O as the faintest color warmed her flesh. “That sweater looks lovely on you, Caro.”

“This old thing?” The black sweater was new, cashmere with a low cowl neckline. The off-white wool slacks were also new, and the outfit was marvelously flattering to her figure. Misleadingly so, as she was only now beginning to realize. When she took off her clothes later, he’d find out exactly what needed to be hidden and what didn’t. She should have worn a sack.

In the meantime, her heart refused to stop thumping in her chest. Hiding behind half-lowered lashes, she found she couldn’t take her eyes off Alan. Candlelight played on his strong features, glowed on his beard, added a flame and mystery to his eyes. He was a gentle man, but these past two weeks she’d had delicious, frightening, exciting, enticing glimpses of the passionate lover he could be. And because of him, she was just beginning to understand that she was much more sensual than she’d ever believed.
Please, Alan, couldn’t we completely forget about dinner and just…

He leaned toward her. Her breath stopped altogether. “You’ve got to try the cactus paddles,” he urged.

“The…oh. I will, I will.” Her eyes dropped to the small plate he’d just filled for her.

“I had to look pretty far and wide for something I knew you’d never tried before.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said softly, and entirely truthfully. By that time, she’d had a taste. “Really different,” she equivocated between gulps of tequila. Well? You didn’t cut a man down who’d spent an afternoon in the kitchen just to please you.

He refilled her glass, and then leaned forward to brush the bits of salt from her upper lip. His thumb lingered, loving the texture of her mouth. That slight touch made her tremble, almost imperceptibly. It made every ghastly hour between sink and oven that afternoon worth it.

His mind groped frantically for something else. The dinner was going fine, but unfortunately it was just a dinner. Any man could have made her a romantic dinner. There had to be something more he could do, some completely new experience he could offer Caro…

“Alan?”

“Hmm?”

“Would I know the name of the artist who did your painting?”

He shook his head. “I doubt it. Her name’s Jennifer Spencer.”

The mushrooms were close to edible, but suddenly wouldn’t go down. “You know her well?” Carroll asked casually.

“Used to.” He considered capturing Caro’s expression on film, but didn’t have a camera handy. Her smile would have cut butter, but her eyes were sparklers. Jealousy, he thought contentedly. Rusty wheels turned in his head. “Old lovers—we all have them, don’t we, Caro?”

“Yes, of course, we do.” Which she abruptly discovered was fine for her, but not at all for him. Who
was
the witch? Carroll glanced again at the painting, then flashed a demure smile at Alan. That oil was going to liven up a garage sale someday soon. “Did you know her long?”

“Hmm.” He leaned back and switched the stereo on low. The speakers in the far corner moaned the faint sound of a rushing surf, as if the ocean were just out of reach in the dark room, bearable, smellable, tastable. Other men had undoubtedly played her plain old music. “Remember the first boy you went out with?” he asked idly.

Since it was obvious she was no longer hungry, Alan pushed aside the tray, readjusted the pillows and drew Caro closer. She tucked her head willingly in the curve of his shoulder, her face lifted to his. She was waiting for him to kiss her, he could feel it. The pulse in her throat had a life of its own.

He touched that pulse with a fingertip, felt a fierce answering chord of desire from deep inside him, and fought to control it. It would be so easy to make love to her now, but it was more than willingness he wanted from Caro, and for Caro. “Your first date?” he coaxed again.

“Mmm…a boy named Kirk Polansky,” she said absently, barely aware of what she was saying. The candles and the dark room and the mystical ocean sounds and Alan’s hand, so gently fingering through her hair…her bloodstream announced that she was being set up. If any other man had tried it, she would have handed him his walking papers, but this was Alan. She loved being set up by Alan. Every nerve ending was increasingly ticklish with anticipation.

“Tell me about it, Caro.”

“About my first date?” She shook her head, chuckling up at him. “A terrible story, Alan. We went to a homecoming dance; his mother had to drive us. He had braces, five left feet, and kissed me at the door like a fish, lips all puckered up, eyes closed.” Humor sparkled in her eyes. “Which isn’t to cut him down, poor boy. At fifteen, I had braces and five left feet, too.”

He smoothed her hair back, his fingers idly playing with the strands. “But you didn’t kiss like a fish.”