Sweets to the Sweet (4 page)

He wanted a woman he could be honest with. Who could accept his faults as he tried to change and grow. A woman capable of total commitment, as he was; a woman who wasn’t intimidated by the take-charge tendencies he knew he had to temper; a woman who was even a little too proud. He understood pride.

And the woman with turquoise eyes had already stirred his soul. “Laura? Did I tell you about the chemical composition of chocolates?”

“No.” She cocked her head curiously, leaning over the cedar rail as he went down the steps.

“Chocolate has small amounts of a substance called phenylethylamine. Actually, that’s a natural chemical that’s also produced in the brain—under certain conditions.”

“What conditions?”

“Reach down with your hand and I’ll show you.”

With a quizzical frown, she did so. His fingers reached out and touched hers, tip to tip. No more. Just the pressure of the pads of their fingers, just the hold he established by eye-to-eye contact, just the heat that suddenly flowed between them, hotter than flame, more fragile than sunlight.

“That chemical naturally occurs,” Owen gently informed her, “when two people are falling in love. Touch isn’t even always required. It still happens. My chemist claims phenylethylamine is a natural aphrodisiac, if you believe in that kind of thing.”

She jerked her hand back, her cheeks flushed. “I don’t!”

“No?” He smiled, then turned and strode to his car.

“Owen!”

He didn’t turn back.

“Owen,
don’t.
You’re
crazy.
I just had a baby; you know that!”

“Just nibble on that chocolate,” he called out to her as he opened his car door. “I’ll be back, Laura.”

He was back the next morning, and the next, and the next. He didn’t mention aphrodisiacs again, and he didn’t touch her, but by Saturday the refrigerator contained a small mountain of delicate treats. A white-chocolate unicorn, a milk chocolate tulip, a cameo in creamy white and darkest dark. He couldn’t possibly understand what those small gifts did to her. Did a friend offer a drink to an alcoholic? A cigarette to a reformed smoker? Owen wasn’t kind.

Laura served him coffee and mutinously folded diapers while he made himself at home. She made brilliant efforts at looking terrible. That wasn’t hard. Finding time to comb her hair took miracles, between night feedings, day feedings, trying to run a business and at the same time give Mari her complete attention. If he really wanted simply to sit there and fold diapers and discuss the merits of pacifiers versus thumb-sucking, it was fine with her.

When he didn’t show up on Saturday, she wasn’t surprised. Sooner or later he had to realize there was no point in involving himself in her life. She made a pot of coffee and found herself staring out the window a dozen times, but she refused to admit she missed him. Laura was realistic. She didn’t have anything to offer this man. Or any man.

It was just that the man seemed to have insinuated himself into her life so easily. He was someone she could talk to. Company. Someone who could make her laugh, who could put a sparkle in those mornings when a long day of chores stretched ahead of her, offering only endless monotony.

And it
did
turn into one of those days. Mari decided to wake up early, and was fitful and cranky all morning. The phone never stopped ringing. Bridgeman’s had a customer who wanted a George III library staircase, Campbell preferably; could she find one? And an antiques dealer wanted her to track down a Gothic Revival birdcage.

She knew of a library staircase in Indiana, and the birdcage she could find if she could spend an hour or two on line—but Mari kept crying.

By midafternoon, Laura gave up hope of both commissions, hope of having lunch, hope of finding a moment to brush her hair, and simply paced the living room with the baby, back and forth, back and forth. She had tried putting Mari in the infant seat, the swing, the pack-and-go, the crib. Each produced furious wails.

Humming lullabies, Laura carried the baby on her shoulder, walking in a pattern around the comb-back chairs, past the couch, through the kitchen, then back to the chairs. By the twentieth trip, her lovely house was beginning to feel like a prison, and Mari was still revving up in volume. By the fortieth trip, depression was trailing Laura like a ghost.

The doctor called it postpartum blues. He was full of jelly beans. She’d always been an upbeat sort of person, a life lover, never one to shy away from trouble. And she certainly didn’t need a strange man cluttering up her kitchen to add to her problems. She would have no problems—just as soon as Mari quit crying.

“Could we approach this rationally?” she whispered to the screaming little one. “I’m trying the best I know how to be a perfect mother for you, darling. I would do anything for you, Mari,
anything.
Don’t you know that? Dammit, was it the strawberries I ate this morning?”

Maybe Mari didn’t like strawberry-flavored milk. Or eggs; Laura had eaten eggs for breakfast. Maybe the baby was too hot, too cold? Maybe she was bored, overstimulated, tired, not tired enough. Maybe the diaper was too tight, or hot tight enough…oh, hell. Maybe she hated her mother?

“I take it the princess is having a royal tantrum today?”

Laura whirled to find Owen standing in the doorway, his hands planted on his hips and sunlight framing his jeans and striped shirt. She was so glad to see him that she could have cried, except that she already seemed to be sniffling. She blinked rapidly, thoroughly annoyed that his showing up mattered to her so much. “Pardon?”

“She does have a slight tendency to throw a temper tantrum whenever the wind blows the wrong way, doesn’t she?” A wry smile played on his lips. “Hello, Laura. Ready to hit the road?”

He ambled familiarly toward the kitchen and returned seconds later with Mari’s diaper bag slung over his shoulder. “Can’t find your shoes.”

Laura shook her head helplessly, motioning to Mari. “Where on earth could I take the baby when she’s acting like
this?
”

“With me.” He was astounded she’d even asked.

“I’m not sure how I got talked into this drive,” Laura remarked idly. Her eyes flickered from the contented baby in her arms to the rapidly passing scenery to Owen’s face.

She hadn’t noticed the laughter lines when she first met him. At the moment, his hair was lazily wind-ruffled and his hand light and relaxed on the steering wheel. The look was of a calm, easygoing man, and the look was totally misleading. Owen was dangerous. An extremely dangerous man who carted screaming babies around as a sideline—though, to give him credit, Mari had stopped crying the minute the engine purred beneath her. The baby liked expensive cars almost as much as Owen did.

Since he hadn’t responded to her first comment, she tried a second. “I didn’t expect to see you again. At least not in the middle of the day. Finding a little company to share coffee with at five o’clock in the morning…I understood that.”

Owen’s eyes had a rueful look as they glanced in the rearview mirror. No other woman would seriously believe that he’d been waking up at dawn only for her coffee.

“Laura?”

“Hmm?”

“Cocoa futures dropped another three points last night. We’re headed into the rainy season in Brazil, the time when flooding could ruin a cacao crop. Gary just informed me that we’re facing a patent fight in the courts. And my twenty-year-old sister called last night to tell me all about her first love affair gone wrong. Now, on one of those days when the floods keep coming, you either have to start bailing or jump ship.” He said gravely, “I opted to jump ship—at least for a few hours. And when I saw you coping with the princess in a tantrum, I figured I’d found a fellow sufferer looking for an escape.”

Laura gave a little laugh. “Maybe you did.”

“Is the baby wearing you to a frazzle?”

“Yes, darn it…but skip Mari. Is your little sister all right?”

Owen leaned back, his eyes glinting with amusement. “No one’s okay after the first love affair ends, but, yes, Pat’ll survive. The thing is, when you’re twenty and getting hurt for the first time, you don’t really
want
to survive.” He added absently, “I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on that boyfriend of hers for just five short minutes…”

Laura chuckled, but she shot him a thoughtful look. “Do your younger brothers and sisters put you through a lot of that kind of thing?”

“On occasion. When five of them were teenagers all at once…well, let’s just say it’s a miracle my parents stayed sane.”

But then, they’d had help, Laura thought fleetingly. And wondered if Owen had ever had the chance to be just a little foolish and a little wild, like other teenagers. “When you talk about your brothers and sisters, you always sound so…protective.”

“Do I?” Owen hesitated. “I guess I feel that way. My parents had to take care of the business as well as the kids. They needed help, and I was the oldest. My mother was ill for a time…” He leveled her a sideways glance. “I told you I’d diapered my share of babies.”

But not that he’d had to, or that he’d been burdened with responsibility when he was so young. “And when did you learn to play?” she asked quietly.

“I’m learning right now.” He grinned. “It’s not all that hard, making up for lost time. And that’s more than enough about me. When are you going to tell me about the princess?”

“Nothing to tell.” Laura leaned back her head, her eyes sleepily regarding the flicker of sunlight through the passing trees. “I read all about it when I was pregnant. The perfect-mother syndrome. Trying too hard instead of relaxing and using a little common sense. Of course,
I
was never going to fall into that pattern, because
I
was emotionally prepared.” She turned her head, her expression deadpan. “I fell into it three and a half minutes after she was born.”

“Laura, you’re doing fine,” Owen scolded gently.

“I would be, if she’d do just
one
thing by the book.”

“Paige says the problem is that men write the baby books.”

“Paige—that’s Gary’s wife? I keep getting the feeling I would like your sister-in-law.”

“You will. In fact, you’re going to meet her in five minutes.”

Laura looked horrified. “Owen, I can’t take the baby anywhere. She’ll just cry…”

And Mari promptly started, the instant Owen switched off the engine. Unperturbed, he climbed out of the driver’s seat and came around to the passenger side, his tall body blocking the view of a two-story colonial house with a yard full of tricycles and swing sets. His dark gray eyes leveled on Laura’s. “Now, don’t look stubborn.”

“I am not going to inflict—” she raised her voice slightly, to be heard over Mari “—a screaming baby on a stranger.”

“Paige won’t mind.”

“
I
do.”

“Laura, my sister-in-law has three who can out-shout the Grateful Dead. Now, relax—”

“Excuse me.” A sprite of a woman with dark curly hair and huge brown eyes darted between them, laughter bubbling from her lips as she threw her arms around Owen and then promptly held them out for the baby. “You’re Laura? And actually trying to out-argue my brother-in-law? God help you… Isn’t she beautiful! How old, Laura?”

“I…four weeks.”

“Sleeping all night yet?”

“Six hours last night.”

Paige nodded. “Sounds about right. Another two weeks and you’ll be out of the woods, but this is the hellish part, isn’t it? You’d sell your soul for just one night of uninterrupted sleep. I read somewhere that the Chinese used it as torture during the war. Not letting prisoners of war sleep was such an easy way to drive them insane… Here, let me take her.”

Ten minutes later, Laura was sitting at a counter in a bright yellow-and-white kitchen with a glass of iced tea in front of her. Paige hadn’t stopped talking yet, and she still held the baby, who had stopped crying—probably because crying was pointless. The noise level was greater than anything Mari had ever been exposed to before, between trikes and baby walkers and toddlers whizzing by.

Standing in the doorway, Owen was listening to the chatter of the two-year-old perched on his shoulder, but he hadn’t taken his eyes off Laura. Bringing her here was an attempt to steal some time alone with her. Paige wouldn’t mind taking care of Mari for a few short hours while he spirited Laura away. Only he’d forgotten—or failed to consider—how isolated Laura had been from feminine companionship since her recent move to the area. She was lapping up all the little reassurances from Paige that new mothers traditionally soak in from their mothers and sisters and friends.

“The doctor says she’s only supposed to be fed every four hours.”

“Bull. Show me one male doctor who’s breast-fed a baby, and I’ll show you a man worth listening to. I fed mine every two hours.”

“Paige, she doesn’t nap. I get so worried. All the books say she’s supposed to.”

“Have you tried—”

Owen didn’t have the heart to interrupt, but his sister-in-law must have noticed his mournful expression, because she let out an abrupt peal of laughter and stood up. “All right! All right! We’ll have other times to talk, won’t we, Laura?”

Laura looked bewildered. Paige chuckled again, gave Mari a kiss on her rosy cheek, and said cheerfully, “You’re stuck with me for a little bit, darlin’. Believe me, we’ll get along just fine.”

Laura glanced at Owen suspiciously.

“We’re leaving,” he confirmed.

Clouds scudded across the sky in a hodgepodge of whimsical shapes. Leaves obscured most of them, and the sun sneaked through the greenery like a surprise, flickering on Laura’s face, catching the soft lace at her throat, then dancing past her calico skirt to her bare legs crossed at the ankles. The blanket beneath her was soft; the earth beneath it just as warm and giving.

Somewhere in the park, teenagers were playing noisily with a Frisbee, but the sounds came from a long distance away. Here, a copse of white oaks offered a secluded haven of privacy, and delectable, unbuyable, precious quiet. Flat on her back, Laura closed her eyes in utter bliss.

“See?”

She peeked an eye open. There was a long, lanky frame next to her, stretched out with his arms behind his head, a blade of grass between his teeth, eyes closed. “Maybe,” she said guardedly, “this was a good idea.”

“It was a
great
idea.”

“You need to learn how to do absolutely nothing for a change,” she agreed.

Now,
that
wasn’t fair, Owen thought with amusement. Laura needed to learn to relax as much as he did—and his impromptu kidnapping was working. Away from the baby, and with Mari given over to someone Laura trusted…yes, his lady lapped up peace and privacy.

Through shuttered lashes, his eyes roved over her supple form. A tumble of light hair spread in curls over the blanket, catching the gold of sunlight now and then. He’d stolen her shoes. Her feet were slim and tiny. He couldn’t see nearly enough of her bare legs under the calico skirt, but he could make out the shape of her thighs and that tiny mound of a stomach that so embarrassed her. She wore a white blouse with a little froth of white lace at the throat and cuffs, fastened with small pearl buttons, her breasts straining the fabric despite the demure design.

She could have been from another age. The age of pirates and virgins, of rakes and innocents. He propped himself up on an elbow, carefully respecting the six-inch distance she’d so deliberately established between them. He wanted to ravish her, steal her away, strip off the concealing layers of clothing inch by inch.

“No.”

She spoke the word like a proclamation, but her eyes were still closed. He raised one dark eyebrow. “No, what?”

The smallest warm breeze touched her face. The earth smelled rich; the forest smells were hypnotic, life smells, soft smells. She could hear the rustle of leaves brushing together, see the shimmer of sunlight behind her closed eyelids, taste summer in the air. The man next to her was more potent than all of that; Laura could perceive him with all five senses. “You didn’t kidnap me,” she said lightly, her eyes still closed.

“No?”

“You didn’t bring me here to relax either, Reesling.”

His lips twisted in a crooked smile. “You think not?” He leaned closer, his fingers lightly combing through her hair.

“I know not. You’re looking for someone to play with, Owen.” Her lashes fluttered open, her eyes that special blue-green, endless, fathomless. She saw in his eyes exactly what she’d expected to see. Wanting, bold and bright. “And I came with you willingly,” she said casually, “to remind you of a few things.”

“Such as?” Like silk, the strands curled around his fingers. He edged a leg closer, bridging that six-inch invisible wall without yet touching her.

“Such as, new babies make for impossible love affairs.”

“Difficult, yes.”

“And ladies who’ve just had babies have healing stitches. In awkward places.”

He smothered a laugh.

Laura kept the deliberately light tone, but her eyes were serious, suddenly filled with anxiety. “Owen, there are lots of women out there. Women with time, women with nice flat stomachs, women who are prettier, smarter…” She took a breath, and suddenly couldn’t try to make it funny anymore. “I deeply appreciate what you’ve done for me. You’ve just…been there, through a rough week, and I—”

“You foolish woman.” He leaned over her, blocking the sun, his face all angles and shadows and angry gray eyes. “You’re the one who’s been there for me this week, not the other way around. You were stuck listening to my whole list of woes—”

“I wasn’t
stuck.
”

“Being you, no.” His eyes softened. “You show caring naturally, sweet; I don’t think you could help it if you tried—but if you really believe the only thing going on between us is a mutual-support society, we’d better clear that up right now.”

The sun and woods disappeared altogether when Owen’s head dipped down. His mouth was warm and sweet, like wild honey. The fierce, wooing pressure of his kiss contrasted to the lightest stroke of his fingertips on her bare throat. She wasn’t prepared for the sweep of exquisite emotions that engulfed her. It had seemed such a brilliant idea, to come with him and tell him the truth. Cards-on-the-table honesty…but Owen seemed to know a different kind of honesty.

His fingertips caressed the vulnerable hollow in her throat with the whispery touch of a lover. His tongue thrust into the dark secret corners of her mouth, plundering with the intimacy of a lover. She lay still, absolutely still. Fire warmed her skin, but ice cooled her veins; or perhaps it was the other way around. It didn’t matter. She’d been afraid of what would happen if he touched her, and even if she died from the fire of passion and the ice of fear she would not give in.

A throaty chuckle escaped his throat, a wicked sound on a quiet afternoon. Her eyes flew open. “That’ll never work with me, you know,” he whispered, “but it’s rather fun that you even want to try. I’ve kissed you before, have you forgotten? Fight it if you want to. Fight it just as long and as hard as you want to, Laura…”

She would have delivered a long, sound lecture on arrogance, but he was kissing her again. Different kisses. Teasing kisses, his, lips just brushing hers. His tongue defined the shape of her bottom lip with feathered softness. His fingers brushed back her hair, over and over, slow, lazy movements, a tender touch.

The pulse jumped in her throat when his palm gradually stroked from her throat to the swell of her breast, down to her ribs, down… Her hand jerked up, clamped on his wrist.

“Don’t,” she whispered haltingly.

There was no give in his voice. “You have every stitch of your clothes on. We’re in a public park. You’re not afraid of anything I’m going to do here.”

“Owen—”

“We’re not going far, love. Just a short excursion down a very private road for a minute or two. Just to make sure you know…it doesn’t happen this way between any other two people. This is happening only for us, Laura. Don’t be afraid to show me what you feel, what I want you to feel…”

He didn’t understand. He couldn’t possibly understand. There were risks she couldn’t take again. She tried to tell him, opening her lips, but his mouth was waiting for her, pressing on hers, coaxing her head back against the blanket. His leg insinuated itself between hers, and she felt herself sinking. The weight of him, the pressure of his arousal, his warmth, the fierce, endless kisses…