Slow Hands (16 page)

“Where is that darned cat?” Clare whispered, unease beginning to blossom in the back of her mind, but she refused to consider any of the dark possibilities her subconscious offered. Finding Slick was simply a matter of going downstairs, and when she found him, she’d give him an earful about wandering off at bedtime.

She returned to her room and pulled on her robe, not bothering with the sash. Instead, she wrapped it across her chest and held it in place with one arm. Slick was a fairly intelligent cat—when he wasn’t chasing feathers
and swinging from curtains. All the same, she’d feel better if she knew he was asleep at the foot of her bed instead of clawing up Tucker’s family antiques or getting into mischief. Quietly, she tiptoed downstairs and whispered his name.

Each dark room greeted her with silence and nudged her uneasiness toward panic. By the time she reached the kitchen, all she could think about was the open kitchen door and William cooking at the stove earlier, the screen door letting the breeze in.

“He hates the outside,” she told herself as she stared at the wooden door that was now safely closed and locked for the night. “William wouldn’t have let him out. I made sure to tell him that Slick was a house cat. He wouldn’t have let him out. Slick’s not gone. He is not gone!” she repeated more firmly.

Then where is he?

Her breaths were too short to supply enough oxygen to her lungs. A tear slipped out of the corner of her eye. Slick might be a pain in the rump, but he was her pain in the rump. He was all she had. She refused to believe he was outside in the dark, scared, and in a strange neighborhood.

Just to be sure, she’d open the door and call him. Even though she knew he wasn’t outside. Yes, just to be safe, she’d call him. Clare pulled open the door and her heart sank. “Oh, my God.”

The old screen door had a tear in the bottom panel. A hole large enough for a determined cat to get through. Clare’s lip began to tremble as she sucked in and expelled air in rapid succession. Each breath became more ragged than the last.

“Oh, Slick. You don’t even know what a car is.”

Clare banished the image from her mind and pulled herself together. She had to think clearly. How long could he have been gone? Two, maybe three hours. Not long.
Long enough
, her panic whispered. He can’t have gone far, she argued silently.
Far enough
, came the grim response.

Resolutely, Clare stepped outside and called Slick. The cat’s name fell from her lips and sank into the still night air like a heavy pebble into water. The word created ripples in the silence, but the ripples didn’t reach far enough because the quiet enveloped her again.

Please answer me, Slick
, she prayed silently as she waited.

Sounds of the night answered her, but not her cat. Acceptance made Clare’s heart thud in a sickening rhythm against her chest as she turned instinctively toward the carriage house. Her cat was gone. She needed help. She needed a friend. She needed Sam.

Clutching her robe, she ran across grass wet from a brief shower and barely noticed the dampness. Nor did she feel the coolness of the brick walkway beneath her bare feet. Her only thoughts were that together, she and Sam could find Slick. They could work out a plan.

Light still shone through the windows and curtains of the ivy-covered-brick carriage house, but Clare wouldn’t have hesitated even if the windows had been dark. She banged on the door and waited only a split second before calling, “Sam. Sam!”

Impatient, Clare tried the door, and when the knob turned, she breathed a thank-you and let herself in. “Sam, I need—”

Clare skidded to a halt after taking only two steps into the room. Sam looked startled but comfortable, his
feet propped up on his desk. Slick lay draped across Sam’s lap, doing his boneless cat imitation and looking contented and safe.

“Need what?” Sam asked cautiously, swinging his feet off the desk. A masculine sixth sense straightened Sam’s spine and tensed every muscle in his body. The night had opened up his door and thrown a whirlwind into the room. Or so it had seemed to him when Clare burst through his door, flamingos swirling and chest heaving. She was breathless and breathtaking. She was dressed for bed, which meant she’d decided to stay, but something was terribly wrong.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Clare asked, relief and anger making her voice shake. The flood of relief only made her realize how frightened she’d been, how scared she still was, and how alone she’d be if anything happened to Slick. “How could you? You think this is some kind of game where you push my buttons and I dance to your tune?”

Sam tossed his paperback mystery onto the desk, gathered Slick up from his lap, and stood to face her. He chose his words carefully, uncertain of what he’d done. “Slow down, Clare. What are you talking about? What do you need?”

“I need what’s mine!” Clare shouted at him, knowing that her emotions were out of control, but she was beyond caring. One hand strangled the doorknob, and the other curled into a fist. Sam had no right to take her cat, to make her think she’d lost Slick. Slamming the door released some of her tension, but not all. Not nearly all. She needed her cat. Clare crossed the room and pulled Slick out of Sam’s arms.

For a minute she buried her face in fur, rubbing her cheek against the softness, letting the reality of his small, warm body invade her senses. Unconsciously, she cradled Slick in her arms and rocked him gently back and forth.
It’s okay. He’s back. He never left.
Bit by bit, the fear began to subside. When she looked up at Sam, she had her emotions under control. “Don’t ever do that to me again. Don’t ever take my cat.”

The words were calm, but raw emotion, barely held in check, stared at Sam from her eyes. A faint moisture trail still glistened on one cheek, and she clutched Slick as though she’d never let go again. Without warning, the last piece of Clare’s puzzle slipped into place in Sam’s mind.

Dear God, he realized, she loves that cat, and she’s terrified of losing what she loves. She lives her life according to schedules and rules because that gives her control. And if she’s in control, losing is a decision she makes and not a quirk of fate. She doesn’t trust the world to open a new door for every one it closes.

Knowing that, he understood her terror when she burst into the carriage house, and he understood her genuine anger because she thought he’d taken her cat. He wanted to gather her up and make the fear go away, but he didn’t. Touching Clare while she was vulnerable was too much like taking advantage of her, like offering a starving child food.

Gently, as if he were afraid to upset her, Sam said, “William asked me to take Slick. He was in the way in the kitchen when he was trying to clean up.”

Clare’s eyes widened. “
William
asked
you
to take
my
cat away?”

“Slick was making a pest of himself.” Sam smiled. “Cats and garbage cans don’t mix. Especially when chicken bones are involved. Since I didn’t mind the company, I took him with me. William promised he’d tell you.” Sam traced the fading path of the tear on her cheek until she pulled away. “I’m sorry, Clare. We didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“I wasn’t frightened!” Lifting her chin, Clare tried to ignore the blood that had begun to race through her veins at the realization he was barefoot and bare-chested. Even to her ears she sounded out of breath as she said, “W-worried, of course, but not frightened.”

“Right.” Sam raised a brow and raked her from head to toe with his eyes, lingering at her breasts. “You always run around barefoot, wearing next to nothing and breaking down doors?”

Clare groaned something inarticulate, shifted Slick, and pulled her robe closed over her gown. Right now she didn’t really remember what gown she’d put on. Not that it mattered. Since she liked pale silks, any of her gowns were sheer enough to be embarrassing. She had no doubt that this one revealed details of her anatomy that were better left concealed.

“No, I do not normally run around breaking down doors, but then, I’m not usually subjected to the practical jokes of southern gentlemen and their butlers.”

Sam advanced toward her. “Clare, I would never intentionally frighten you. And neither would William.” Once again he flicked his gaze over her. This time he smiled. “Since you obviously weren’t planning to leave us, he didn’t see the need to tell you.”

“But I
am
leaving.” Clare backed toward the door,
wishing now that she hadn’t slammed it in anger. “Tomorrow.”

“Why didn’t you go tonight?” Sam asked. “Why wait?”

Slick made an unhappy noise and began to struggle against her tight grip. Clare calmed him, uncomfortably aware that she’d run out of room. Her back touched the door. As Sam closed the distance between them, she was reminded that when he walked barefoot, Sam moved like a predatory animal closing in.

Without a shirt, Sam lost the civilized veneer. He truly became the wolf at the door, and she found herself wanting to invite him in, to let him devour her, to be lost in the rush of feeling.

Another step, and he’d be so close, only light could pass between them. Another step, and it would be too late. Too much had happened that day; she couldn’t trust her instincts. So Clare whirled and reached for the knob.

Sam’s palm shoved the door closed again almost before she’d opened it. “Why did you wait, Clare?”

As she tried to decide on an answer, Slick wiggled free and hit the floor with a thud. Without him she felt defenseless, deserted, under siege. “It was late.”

“Why did you wait, Clare?” Sam repeated as his other hand flattened against the wall, framing her body between his arms.

Sam surrounded her from behind, invaded her space, made her knees weak, and he hadn’t even touched her. He did all this to her and still wanted her to think clearly enough to answer questions. She couldn’t. Each movement magnified the tiny rustle of silk against silk and brought to mind the image of Sam with the robe cascading through his fingers.

“Why did you wait, Clare?” Leaning into her, Sam aligned his body with hers, letting the flamingo robe tease his chest with memories. “Tell me,” he whispered, wanting her to admit she needed them. “Why didn’t you leave?”

“I was lonely.” Clare rested her head against the door. “I didn’t want to go home to the quiet and the dark.”

Sam closed his eyes against the swift rush of satisfaction that swept through him.
Halfway. She’d come halfway.
He hadn’t realized the hole in his life was so big until he’d decided he wanted Clare to fill it. The muscles in his abdomen tightened as he waited. He wanted her to acknowledge what had been building between them. She had to want to make love as much as he did.

“That’s not true. Not completely,” she said, and braced her hands, palms flat, against the door. “What have you done to me, Sam? Why do I keep thinking about the way you touch me? I don’t want to feel this way. I don’t want to be lonely.”

Sam smiled.
Close enough.
He pulled aside the collar of her robe and feathered the back of her neck with kisses as he promised, “Sweet Clare, I can make the lonely go away. At least for tonight.”

Slowly, he pulled the robe down her shoulders and tossed it aside, exposing creamy skin and the thin white
straps of her gown. She started to turn in his arms, but he stopped her by circling her waist and pulling her hips into the cradle of his thighs. “We’ll do this my way.”

Clare closed her eyes and leaned back into the strength of his chest. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this at all.”

“Wrong. We should have done this a long time ago.”

Sam slid his hands across her belly and downward to explore contours of her body, the rise created by her hipbones, the edge of her panties, and the swell of her womanhood. Although she tensed and laid her hands against his forearms, she didn’t stop him. Sam gently pressed his lips to her shoulder and began to gather the gown with his fingers, reeling in the silk fabric, inch by inch. He felt as though he were unveiling a work of art he had waited a long time to possess.

When the hem of the gown reached her waist, Sam let one hand sample the warmth of her skin and glide over the lace that edged her panties. Her belly quivered beneath his touch, and he marveled at the perfect fit of her body. His tongue teased the shell of her ear as his hand pressed her more snugly against his arousal. He wanted her to feel his desire, to know how hard he was for her.

Clare concentrated on breathing and controlling the shudder that threatened to shimmy through her. Sam’s hands were magic. With gentle pressure between her thighs, he let her know he wanted her to open for him. Instinctively, Clare adjusted her legs. When he cupped her, letting his fingers slide into the narrow space between her legs, she gasped and arched her back. To be held so intimately was ecstasy. To be separated from the touch of his hand by a scrap of fabric was torture.

With deliberate care, he drew his hand away, his fingers
stroking the sensitive valley. The feeling of loss Clare experienced was quickly replaced by the unexpected sensation of having her breasts bared to the cool air as Sam pushed up her gown and found the aroused buds of her nipples with thumb and forefingers. Impatiently, she tugged the gown over her head and flung it away.

Now nothing separated her bare back from the taut muscles of Sam’s chest. Each time he caressed her nipples, he pulled desire through her abdomen and sent need snaking through her limbs. Clare wet her lips as she looked down at his hands, so strong and tan against her pale skin.

Sam stilled the motion of his fingers and tested the weight of one breast in his hands, letting the soft flesh mold itself to the shape of his curved palm. “So soft,” he whispered. “So right. God, Clare. Do you know how crazy you could make a man?”

Finally, he turned her in his arms and brought her to his chest. He savored the electric charge that washed over him as flesh met flesh. This is how he’d dreamed of Clare, soft and pliant in his arms. He wanted all of her.

He felt a pulsing need to be inside her, a part of her. But he couldn’t satisfy the hunger yet. The fire in his gut was too strong to control. Taking Clare too quickly would be a mistake. He had to wait until the explosion of desire that ripped through his body had settled into a slow burn. Just the thought of burying himself inside her almost took him over the edge.