The Last White Knight (8 page)

He set his cup aside, popped the last of his Twinkie in his mouth, and wiped his fingers on his shirt. Lynn tried to sidle away as he reached for her, but he caught her with a firm yet gentle hand, turning to trap her between himself and the counter.

“Be still,” he ordered, tawny brows pulling together in consternation. “You’re like a wild horse, shying away from me every time I try to touch you.”

“Did it ever occur to you that I don’t want to be touched?” she snapped, moving her head from side to side, trying to dodge his hand.

“No,” he said bluntly. “It occurred to me that you’re afraid to have me touch you.”

Fire flared in her emerald eyes. Her chin came up a notch. “I am not.”

“Liar.”

He spread his fingers into her hair and settled them against her scalp, rubbing gently. “Relax,” he ordered. “And close your eyes, too, while you’re at it. Go on.”

Lynn squeezed her eyes shut, determined to hold herself rigid in his grasp. She wouldn’t give in to him. No doubt everyone gave in to him—Erik the
Great, destined for big things. It was time he didn’t get his way. He needed to see he couldn’t win her over with a smile and a magic touch.…

But, dammit, it felt wonderful. He had found a spot with his middle finger that made her want to groan aloud, and when he brought his thumb against her forehead to rub at the knot of tension there, she did groan aloud, a soft soughing sound that slipped between her lips without her permission. Muscles loosened of their own volition and she relaxed, melting against the counter.

“That feels good, doesn’t it?” Erik whispered.

“Yes,” she admitted grudgingly.

Erik chuckled. “Why do I think you’d rather have gotten a migraine than proved me right?”

Lynn let her eyelids drift up to half-mast and looked up at him through the barrier of her lashes. His expression was soft, amused, sweet. Why couldn’t he have been pompous and arrogant? She regularly cut off pompous, arrogant men at the knees and sent them crawling home. But this one … this one was dangerous.

“I’m not here to hurt you, Lynn,” he murmured, the sincerity in his eyes almost enough to bring a lump to her throat.

“No,” she said, scrambling inwardly for a defense. “You’re here on a mission of mutual benefit.”

Irritation flashed in his eyes like lightning. His hand stilled, then slipped away from her and settled on his hip. “I thought we settled this point last night. I’m here because I want to help.”

“Why?” Lynn challenged, setting her coffee cup aside. “Yes, it’s a worthy cause, but Horizon was a worthy cause a year ago when the landlord was raising our rent and refusing to make repairs on the house, and we never saw you then. Admit it, Senator, you wouldn’t be here now if someone hadn’t deemed this situation not only worthy but
news
worthy.”

“I’m not the one who called the TV crew last night.”

“But you’re the one who got the publicity.”

“What difference does it make?” Erik shook his head and reined in his temper. He had a feeling she was deliberately provoking him, picking a fight to put more distance between them.

“This argument is pointless,” he said, sliding his hand back into her hair and renewing the massage. He inched a little closer, casually bracing his free hand on the counter beside Lynn’s hip. “You know what I do about pointless arguments?” He smiled as he bent his head toward hers. “I end them.”

It was the perfect opportunity for Lynn to draw a line and push him back across it. She should have.
But she didn’t. She silently cursed her sudden immobility as Erik’s mouth descended on hers. As if she had suddenly lost control of her motor skills, she simply stood there and let him kiss her. And worse, she let herself absorb the sensations and enjoy them.

His lips were both firm and soft, warm and satiny. He tasted like coffee and sweetness. His morning beard rasped gently against her cheek as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss. With the tip of his tongue he traced the shape of her lips, then gently asked for permission to slip inside. And while Lynn didn’t exactly grant it, she didn’t exactly deny it either.

Erik interpreted her nonresponse in his favor, taking what he wanted, easing his tongue into her mouth. He liked the taste of morning on her—coffee and toothpaste. She tasted fresh, as if he were the first man to experience her. The idea brought a rush of possessiveness and the primitive heat of the male need to claim her as his. He stroked his left hand through her thick, soft hair to cup the back of her head and hold her at the angle he liked best. His right hand migrated from the counter to the gentle curve of her hip, fingers kneading, pulling her closer. Her hands came up against his chest, as if
she meant to push him away, but the action never came.

He kissed her as if they had all the time in the world, taking full advantage of the fact that she wasn’t fighting him. He could sense her hesitancy, but it was being overridden for the moment by something stronger. The spark that had ignited between them the night before was struggling to come to life, and Erik was determined to do all he could to fan it into a flame.

Still, when Lynn finally tried to end the kiss, he let her. Some scrap of common sense that hadn’t been completely blown away by touching her told him not to push too many boundaries too soon. She was wary of him. If he let her keep too much distance between them, they would never get the chance to explore this passion blooming between them. But if he allowed himself to be too aggressive, he would ruin his chances altogether.

“See?” he whispered, his head still bent near hers, his gaze searching her eyes for her reaction. “Argument’s over.”

Lynn swallowed a breath. A belated tremor shivered down her from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes. “You make a very convincing closing statement, Senator,” she said breathlessly.

“Erik,” he commanded gently.

“E-Erik.”

He smiled at that. His name stumbled out of her mouth like a word from a foreign language. He stroked his hand over her hair and started to draw her close again, just wanting to hold her for a minute longer.

“Care to make a rebuttal, Counselor Shaw?”

Lynn started to shake her head. “I don’t think—”

“No. Your trouble is, you think
too
much.”

That was hardly the case, Lynn wanted to tell him. All her life she had gotten into trouble for acting, not thinking. She ran on emotion and instinct, action and reaction. Her emotionalism was what had set her apart in her family. Her father had been a man of logic. Her sister, Rebecca, had been the same way—pragmatic, analytical, reserved. And their staid, controlled personalities had only provoked Lynn to behave in an even more outrageously emotional way. Even now, with her rebellion behind her, she tended to act first. Her altercation with Elliot Graham the night before had been a perfect example.

Martha’s voice came bellowing down the hall and snapped Lynn from her trance. Her hands were still pressed flat against Erik’s chest and she gave him a shove, intending to bolt away from him. He gave her that infuriating little smile of his, holding her a
second longer, then releasing her. The kitchen door swung open and Martha barged in, arms laden with grocery bags. She was followed by three teenage girls, each with a bulging bag in their arms. The bags went on the table. The eyes went to Erik Gunther. Tracy, Michelle, and Barbara stared at him, bug-eyed and slack-jawed, as if they’d never seen a live man before.

“Hunk-o-rama!” Michelle breathed, nudging Barbara with a bony elbow.

Tracy Brogan leaned toward the others, dark eyes stuck on Erik. “Do you think he comes with the house?” she whispered.

Erik blushed and tried to muster a stern look that had no effect whatsoever on the girls. They studied him with open curiosity as they stood there in a tight little knot. Teenage girls. Even as a teenager himself, he hadn’t been able to figure them out. They were like an alien life-form to him. And they looked it, too, he thought as he took in the over-permed hairdo with bangs spritzed into frozen fountains of hair springing high up from their foreheads. He was a man who regularly argued important issues with the most powerful men in the state, but he was suddenly way out of his element and he knew it.

Lynn cleared her throat loudly in an effort to
gain their attention. “Girls,” she said. “This is State Senator Gunther. Senator, Tracy Brogan, Michelle Jenner, and Barbara Wheeler.”

Erik nodded politely. He was suddenly aware of the state of his appearance—the rumpled polo shirt with the tails hanging out, chinos that were in dire need of a steam iron, a day’s growth of beard on his face. He didn’t look like a state senator. He looked as if he’d spent the night, and the bright gleam in the girls’ eyes told him they thought so too.

“We had a little trouble here last night after you and Lillian left, Martha,” he said, feeling the need to connect with an adult. “Father Bartholomew and I bunked in the living room. We didn’t think Lynn should stay here alone.”

“Trouble?” Martha’s fleshy face folded into a look of concern as she pulled a gallon of milk out of a grocery bag and turned toward the refrigerator. “Land o’ Goshen! What happened to the refrigerator?”

Lynn rubbed a hand across her mouth, half-glad for the dent in the appliance. It would keep Martha’s shrewd eyes from catching the fact that she looked thoroughly kissed. “Um, it’s a long story. Can we wait until everyone’s here to go over it?”

Martha ignored the question. She thrust the milk
at Tracy and took Lynn by the shoulders. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Really.” Lynn met her employer’s gaze without flinching, putting on a poker face that would have won her a bundle in Vegas. It didn’t fool Martha. Her gaze slid meaningfully to Erik and back, and a ghost of a smile claimed her bright red lips.

The kitchen door swung open again and Lillian strode in, looking her usual prim self. Her face was set in stern lines of disapproval, and Lynn could tell by her long, slow deep breath that her patience was nearing an end. The reason for Lillian’s mood stepped into the kitchen behind her—five feet eight inches of pretty, dark-haired, blue-eyed trouble.

“God, this place is a dump,” Regan Mitchell pronounced, her voice dripping disdain. She gave the kitchen a cursory, narrow-eyed look and crossed her arms over the front of her black tank top as her gaze sliced across the room to Lynn. “It doesn’t even have cable.”

Lynn shrugged. “Believe it or not, most of the great people in the history of the world managed to grow up without MTV.”

“Not that you’d be watching it if we did have it,” Lillian intoned imperiously.

Regan gave a huff of disgust. Lynn looked to Martha for an explanation.

“While you were busy here defacing the kitchen appliances, we were having a little crisis of our own. Regan went out for a while last night without notifying anyone.”

The girl rolled her eyes and sighed the sigh of the teenaged oppressed. “So I went downtown. Big deal. There wasn’t anything else to do. This place is so boring I can’t stand it.”

“Yeah, well we can’t stand
you
, either,” Tracy Brogan sneered, giving her fellow resident a malevolent look.

“Tracy, that’s enough,” Lynn admonished quietly. “Lillian, why don’t you take Tracy and Michelle and Barbara upstairs and try to decide how the bedrooms should be arranged.”

The group marched out, Lillian with her regal nose raised, Tracy bumping shoulders with Regan on her way past, Barbara and Michelle still casting looks of amazement at Erik. Martha started putting groceries away, her manner relaxed.

Lynn went to the table and plucked a Twinkie off the plate, her attention gradually drifting back to Regan, who still stood braced for battle. Her mouth was painted a hideous shade of dark plum and set in a grim pout. Defiance radiated from her like an
aura—defiance of authority, defiance of anyone trying to get close. She even defied her own budding beauty. She had hacked her hair into a ragged style that looked as if rats had chewed it off as she slept. She dressed in the look Lynn called “The Grim Reaper Goes G.I.”—anything black and unflattering on milky-white skin, and combat boots. A safety pin and a cross hung from one ear. A tiny ruby studded one nostril. It was a look calculated to make her seem ugly and unapproachable. Lynn knew; she had worn her own version of it for a time.

“Want a Twinkie?” she asked, holding up the yellow cake. The question won her nothing more than a derisive snort. “So where’d you go last night?”

“Nowhere.”

“That must have been exciting.”

“I went to Peace Plaza to hang out, okay? Big freaking deal.”

From the corner of her eye, Lynn caught Erik’s scowl as he helped Martha unpack grocery bags. She looked back at Regan in time to catch the girl examining a nasty scrape on the knuckles of her right hand.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Like you really care.”

“I do really care.”

“Because my parents are paying you to.”

“No, but I’m sure you’d rather think that, so I’m not going to argue with you. What happened?”

Regan’s gaze flicked away. “I tripped on the sidewalk.”

She wasn’t a very convincing liar. Lynn hadn’t figured out yet if her ineptitude at prevarication was intentional or natural. She suspected it was a little of both. She let the subject drop for the moment. She didn’t like the idea of Regan wandering the streets at night, and neither did she like the idea that something had happened to cause that abrasion, but probing deeper now would only win her more defiance. She took a bite of Twinkie and changed tack.

“Regan, I know you have a problem with rules,” she said calmly, dipping a finger into the cream filling, “but we really need you to follow them right now. Things are getting pretty touchy with this move.”

“What the hell do I care?” the girl snapped. “I hate this freaking place. I wouldn’t care if someone burned it to the freaking ground.”

“Hey!” Erik barked, wheeling around from the cupboard with a thunderous expression on his face. “I’ve heard about enough of your mouth.”
Regan’s chin lifted. “So why don’t you freaking leave?”

Lynn watched as Erik’s face turned red clear to the tips of his ears. The muscles in his jaw tightened, his nostrils flared. Seeing his temper escalate reminded her of her father. A little part of her heart sank. She had already guessed he wouldn’t be the tolerant sort, but some small corner of her heart had been holding out hope. Foolish heart. He was an authoritarian, a man who lived by the rules, a straight arrow. He wouldn’t understand girls like Regan. He said he was here because he cared, but his caring didn’t extend beyond the issue itself.