Sam (BBW Bear Shifter Wedding Romance) (Grizzly Groomsmen Book 2) (67 page)

“Why do you want to have dinner with me?”

He stared hard at her once more, then in a move so smooth she would forever wonder why she hadn’t seen it coming, he stepped close to her, and taking her face between his warm, powerful hands, he laid his lips on hers. He didn’t push her hard, only probed gently, but in another moment, she opened her mouth under his and their kiss deepened. She gripped the edge of her desk in a desperate attempt to ground herself, as he deepened it further, leaving her breathless and hot with a new kind of yearning.

When he stepped back at last, she gasped for breath. He continued to hold her face gently, until she finally managed to raise her eyes to his and refocus. He held her gaze for another long moment, then without a word, he turned away and headed for the door.

“Bartholomew!”

He glanced back, and this time she saw the smile in his eyes. “I’ll pick you up at six.”

With that, he opened the door and left her, closing it softly behind him.

She waited just a beat then covered her face with her hands.

“My God, what have I done?” she whispered.

Trembling, she made her way to her private bath, and flicking on the lights, she stared at herself in the mirror. Her once smooth chignon she always wore to work was coming loose, and her lipstick was gone. There was no doubt about it: she looked as though she had been thoroughly kissed.

“Well, you have, you twit,” she said, turning on the water and splashing her face. She gulped handfuls of the cool water then turned it off and reached for a towel.
 

Studying herself in the mirror once more, she considered her position. She wasn’t going to try to fool herself. Bart had asked her to dinner, but she suspected he likely would expect “afters.” The crazy thing was, she really hoped he did, because she wanted him, too—and, she realized suddenly, it had absolutely nothing to do with his nephews’ band.

“So, where are you taking me to dinner?” Kitty asked, as Bart handed her into his car. She recognized the blue, mid-sized sedan as belonging to Mel, which Kitty appreciated, because she knew Bart usually drove the family’s big SUV, and she had no illusions about being able to get in and out of that big black behemoth gracefully in a straight skirt and heels.

“You’ll see,” he said, waiting for her to pull her skirt clear of the opening before he shut the door firmly behind her.

Kitty didn’t say anything more when he got in beside her. Refusing to be dragged into a game of twenty questions, she simply buckled her seatbelt and sat back while he did the same then started the engine.

“You’re a stubborn woman, Kitty Konstantine,” he said as he drove them out of the parking lot, and she thought she heard humor in his voice.

“Not really. I just refuse to beat my head against an immovable object.”

He chuckled, then. “This from the woman who’s been hounding my nephews and me for over a year, now, trying to get them to play in the big house?”

“A lot of good it did me,” she said.

“Not your fault,” he said, surprising her.

“Not to hear my father tell it,” she said, before she could stop herself. She knew she sounded bitter but didn’t care.

“In some ways, your old man reminds me of Meg’s,” he said, referring to his youngest nephew’s new wife. “They both want to claim ownership of a daughter without making any effort whatsoever to be worthy of being called a father. Of course, Meg’s old man at least recognizes her talent, whereas you’re father is clueless about the talent you have.”

“I don’t have any musical talent.”

“I didn’t say ‘musical,’ darlin’. I just said talent. And you are—without a doubt—one of the most talented negotiators I’ve ever met. It takes someone special to be able to talk people from all over the place into seein’ things your way—and to then think what they’re seein’ was their idea in the first place.”

“Everyone but you,” she said, turning her head to study his profile.

He smiled. “Yeah, well, I’m special, too.”

Kitty found herself smiling in spite of herself. “You are that,” she murmured, though his grin said clearly that he’d heard her.

Bart didn’t respond but instead made a couple of quick turns then pulled into an alley between the back yards of houses.

“Where are we?” she asked, feeling the first hint of alarm.

“Home,” he said, pulling in behind a two-story structure.

It was an old Victorian house in a neighborhood full of them. Like its neighbors, it was clearly a part of the movement to preserve and renovate these old beauties.

“You didn’t say anything about taking me to your place,” she said, nervous in spite of her resolve.

“I said I was takin’ you to dinner,” he said, getting out of the car.

“But…!”

He closed his door with a firm hand then came around the hood of the car to open her door for her.

“Dinner usually means a restaurant,” she said, making no move to get out.

He sighed. “But tonight is all about tellin’ you the truth, darlin’, and I can’t do that at a restaurant any more than I could at your office.

“Don’t worry,” he added. “I haven’t poisoned anyone, yet.”

Kitty hesitated another moment then took his offered hand and stepped out of the car. Looking around, she noticed the house across the alley was three stories, and she recognized the black SUV and the white van.

“Your nephews?” she asked, gesturing across the way.

“Mel was living in the top floor apartment when we met her. We were able to buy the house from the owner right before she and Matt were married. Then Addy came along, and this place came up for sale. It was a mess, but John and I moved over here when Luke and Candace married. Then John found Meg, so we spent all our time on the upstairs apartment. My space was only finished about a month ago.”

The whole time he was talking, he was gently herding Kitty into the apartment, and by the time he finished with the explanation, she was standing inside the back door, staring around at the kitchen, stunned by what he had done.

“I have to say, it’s not what I’d expected, but this is incredible,” she said, moving around the room, touching various surfaces.
 

The kitchen and dining area beyond were traditional in design, though the open floor plan and high-end finishes took it a step beyond. Closer inspection showed it leaned more toward the simplicity of mid-century modern in the furnishings, but blurry water-color paintings of mountains and forests harkened back to the past. The lighting was mostly hidden, the furnishings comfortable-looking. The small round table under a simple hanging lamp was set for two, complete with wine glasses and candles ready to light. Bart crossed the room to touch a switch, and a cheerful gas fire began to burn brightly in the fireplace.

“Confident, weren’t you?” she said, gesturing toward the set table.

Bart grinned. “I figured you wouldn’t be able to resist.”

After tapping a button on the microwave oven, he opened the big oven and brought out a pan of bubbling lasagna.

“Italian?” she asked. “You continually surprise me, Bartholomew.”

“Don’t worry. I put it together, but it’s Mel’s red sauce.”

“Ah.”

He placed the glass pan in a woven tray, carried it to the table, then returned to the refrigerator and brought out what looked like a spinach salad, which he proceeded to toss with vinegar and oil dressing.

“The bread’s in the microwave,” he said.

When the oven dinged, she opened the door to find a loaf of sliced Italian bread in a basket. Pulling it out, she smelled the garlic in the butter.

“Wine?” he asked.

“I might as well,” she said.

Bart grinned and poured red for them both before reaching into a drawer for a lighter and lighting the candles. Setting the lighter aside, he flicked off the kitchen lights.

“I guess that’s everything,” she said.

“Not quite.”

Before she could move past him to the table, he took hold of her arms, backed her against the kitchen counter, and reached up to pull her hair free of the chignon. She heard the pins hit the countertop and hardwood floor as he combed his long fingers through the heavy waves, and she was shocked to feel the ripple of desire run through her from her scalp to her toes. When he was through, he held one thick lock to the light.

“It’s not really red, and it’s not really brown, is it?” He smiled. “Chestnut, maybe.”

Kitty had to swallow, before she could speak. “It mostly depends upon what color I’m wearing—and the lighting,” she said.

“And you often dress in black, don’t you?”

“It’s professional,” she said tightly. “If you’re through playing with my hair, now, I’m hungry.”

Bart grinned. “Right.”

He surprised her once more when he pulled her chair out for her. Then he was serving her lasagna, and passing her the salad. Nothing more was said as they began to eat what turned out to be a delicious meal.

“You were going to tell me the truth,” she said, when she finally came up for air long enough to sip her wine.

“After dinner,” Bart said. “I want you to enjoy your dinner, first.”

“That sounds ominous,” she said, wishing she could make a joke about it.

Bart shook his head and drank some wine. “Nothing of the sort, but you may want to leave right after, and I want to enjoy our dinner, first.”

Kitty sighed and started on her salad.

When she looked up a moment later, he was smiling at her, and she felt her face heat.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothin’. Only it’s good to see a woman enjoyin’ her food. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve bought dinner for a lady only to have her pick at it.”

Kitty shook her head. “Just lucky, genetically speaking. I have a very high metabolism that lets me enjoy food without worrying about putting on the pounds.”

Bart narrowed his eyes. “Does it really matter so much to women? Shoot, no man wants to be seen out with a bag of bones.”

Kitty reached for her wine once more. “That’s nice to know, but you’ll have to take it up with the fashionistas.”

Bart snorted. “Oh. Them.”

Kitty surprised herself by laughing.
 

“That’s better,” Bart said. “You should laugh more often.”

Kitty froze then very deliberately returned her wine glass to the table. Before he could stop her, she pushed away from the table and stood.

“I’ll take that truth, now,” she said, trying desperately to ignore all the sensations she was feeling in response to the way he was looking at her.
 

This is business!
She admonished herself.
Forget the way he’s looking at you!

Easier said than done,
she told herself.

When she finally looked up to meet his gaze, his golden eyes darkened.

“All right,” he said, his tone of voice a soft growl. “Come into the living room.”

Kitty moved ahead of him, careful to keep some distance between them. When she reached the far side of the room, she turned to face him and was surprised to see him drawing the curtains. She felt a quiver, deep in her belly, and had to force herself not to flee.

“You want to know why the boys won’t play in the big houses.”

“Yes.”

She thought she heard him sigh. He stuffed his hands in his front pockets like before and jingled his change. For some reason, he seemed to be finding it difficult to meet her eyes, now, and she was amazed.

“Are they in trouble with the law?” she asked, thinking it might be the only explanation.

Bart managed a small smile.

“No. It’s nothin’ like that.”

“Then what?”

He took a deep breath. “There’s somethin’ some of the men in our family do,” he said, “somethin’ we can usually control under normal circumstances. Once we hit twenty or so, we can control it pretty well, but there are things that can set us off—loud noises, wild crowds, flashing lights, that sort of thing.”

“The sort of thing they’d have to deal with on a big stage.”

“That’s just it, darlin’,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “See, in a small house, especially someplace like the Fiddlers’ Cave, the stage is small, it’s near a door, and the crowd’s only gonna be about a hundred people. It’s plenty loud, but everyone’s on the same level, and the really bright lights are limited to a handful of parcans. There’re no special effects or laser lights or smoke or anything else that might set us off.

“But in a big house…” He shook his head. “I learned lighting and sound in college, but I interned out in Vegas, and I can tell you that was one helluva challenge for me. I don’t want the boys to have to worry about all that—and they know it wouldn’t be easy, so they’re happy to take my lead on this.”

“Are you telling me they’d be willing, but you won’t let them?” she asked, incredulous.

“No, no,” he said, shaking his head quickly. “No, it’s somethin’ we’ve talked about—a lot—and they don’t want to take any chances, either.”