Warm Hearts (14 page)

“I would have thought that to be your parents' job,” Brendan observed gently.

Caroline shot a helpless glance at the ceiling. “My parents are a whole other story. My dad is the sweetest guy in the world. He runs a successful business and he's a crackerjack at what he does, but when it comes to dealing with other people's emotions, he's helpless. Unfortunately, my mother is a whirling dervish of emotions. She worries about anything and everything. If there aren't any problems, she creates them.”

“So your brother and sister turned to you.”

“And my mother. She turned to me, too! She'd be right there when I got home from school to tell me of her latest trauma. And I listened and commiserated and said whatever I could to make her feel better.” She held up a hand. “Please don't misunderstand me. It wasn't that I had any answers, that I was a genius or anything—simply that I had a positive attitude and some common sense.”

“And patience,” he said with a smug grin.

She blushed, recalling the observation he'd made while they were making love. “And patience,” she admitted softly. She reached for the pitcher of iced tea, refilled both their glasses, then took a long, cool drink from her own.

Brendan was thinking about what she'd said. “You were obviously a born counselor. Your family must have seen that early on.”

“I'm not sure that they were aware of what was happening back then. Now they say things like ‘I knew I could count on you, Caro,' or ‘What would I do without you, Caro?' or ‘You're a good soul, Caro.'”

“Now? You mean it's still going on?”

She nodded and scrunched her face up in despair. “My mother still calls me several times a week from Milwaukee, my sister from Philadelphia, my brother from Baltimore. I do love them and I'd be lonely if I didn't talk with them, but to come home from work and have to deal with every one of their problems and non-problems and worries and fears … it's too much. Maybe if I were in a different profession, if I weren't dealing with other people and their problems day in, day out, I'd have emotional energy to spare. But I've begun to feel so
tired
of it all, so—”

“Used.”

Her gaze grew beseeching. “Then you understand?” He barely had time to nod when she sat forward and rushed on. “And it isn't only my family. It's my friends. Old ones drop by when they're in Washington, and I love seeing them and exchanging news, but somehow or other we always revert to the same pattern. They pour out their hearts, I listen and counsel. I mean, it's always been this way, so I don't know why it's bothering me now—except that maybe it's finally hit me that there ought to be two sides to a relationship.

“Okay—” she held up a hand “—you're probably thinking that I'm a stable person who solves her own problems rather than seeking out the advice of others, and to a certain extent you're right, but not completely. I have needs, too.”

“Do your friends know that?”

“On one level they do, but I don't harp on it. And I know that's my problem, too. If I were to say something or be more demanding, things might be different. But I get so wrapped up in their lives that I don't think of my own until afterward. Take Jessica Wright. We met at an aerobics class two years ago and became friends. I really like her. She works at a local TV station, so she's interesting and she's fun. But her social life is like a soap opera. She called me last month—I still can't believe this—she called me in a panic because she'd mistakenly made dates with two guys on the same day. Now, theoretically she'd have been okay. She was seeing Donald in the afternoon and Malcolm in the evening. Except she'd promised Malcolm dinner at seven, which was just about the time Donald said he'd have her back.”

Brendan could anticipate the problem. “But she couldn't say anything to either, because neither was supposed to know about the other?”

She nodded. “Would you believe that both men work at the station?”

He winced, but his thoughts were already moving ahead. “What did she have you do?” he asked cautiously.

“I went over to her place at five, set the table and put dinner on to cook—none of which she could do earlier, or Donald would have suspected something when he picked her up.”

“Couldn't she have said a girlfriend was coming over?”

“With fine china, starched linens and candlelight?”

Brendan conceded the point with an appreciative “Not bad. So, what happened then?”

“By the time seven rolled around, I had everything ready. Jessie had Donald drop her at another friend's apartment. She raced through the back alleys and climbed up the fire escape to her bedroom, while I did my best to occupy Malcolm.” She combed her fingers through her bangs, which were damp again from the heat. “Forget the fact that I was late for a date myself. Jessie was so apologetic and so grateful that it didn't seem to matter at the time. I told myself that it was one instance, that's all. But if it isn't Jessie, it's someone else.” She paused for the quickest of breaths before barreling on. “Take my partners at work. They're all wonderful, and I never mind covering for them when something comes up, but there has to be a limit somewhere, somehow, on their other demands. Maren insists that I take her shopping—”

“You have great taste in clothes.”

Caroline didn't have to ask how he knew what she wore, so she asked more softly, “Do you think so?”

He nodded.

The pleasure his compliment brought broke the momentum of her diatribe. She smiled and sat quietly for a minute.

“Go on,” he prompted.

Her shoulder settled with the release of tension. “I can't believe I'm doing this. I sound just like my mother.”

“You're human. You need to sound off once in a while. When was the last time you did it?”

She shrugged.

“Then it's long overdue. Please. Go on.”

She gave a quick shake of her head. “You don't need this.”

“Go on.”

“I must be boring you silly.”

“You're making me feel useful. Besides, there's a message that's coming for me at the end—that ‘but' about our future together. Since I'm not sure I want to hear it, the longer you take getting there, the better.” He cleared his throat. “Now, then, you were talking about your partner, Maren, with whom you go shopping. I take it she has lousy taste in clothes?”

Caroline sent him a you-should-only-know look. “On top of that, she has bright-red, almost orange hair and she's on the chubby side, so the challenge of finding things that become her is that much greater.”

“How about your other partners?”

She raised a finger. “There's Peter, who is a single father and needs a recreation director when his thirteen-year-old daughter is with him, which is every other weekend.” A second finger joined the first. “There's Norman, who's at war with his mother-in-law and needs a full-time strategist—and who, by the way, happens to be Elliot's brother, a lovely situation.” A third finger went up. “And there's Jason, our part-time secretary, who has discovered that he gets better grades on his college papers after I've done some editing.”

“And you can't say no?”

“How
can
I? They're my friends. They need help, so they come to me. They know I won't refuse. But it's been so tiring lately. Always another demand. Maybe it's the heat—” The phone rang. Her gaze flew to the offensive instrument, and her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “I knew it was too good to be true. Not a call all evening. This one is bound to be a doozy.”

Brendan had to work hard to keep from laughing at her beleaguered expression. The phone rang again. “Should I get it?”

She seriously considered that, then shook her head. “If it's Elliot, he'd be crushed.” She glanced at the digital clock on the face of the microwave oven. “It's pretty late. With the time difference, though, it could easily be my mother in some kind of dither. Even without the time difference, it could be Karen going into labor, or Carl about to strangle Diane—” A third ring came and Caroline pressed a fist to her forehead. “I can't stand this.” Jumping up from the table, she snatched at the receiver. “Hello?”

“Gladys?” asked a slow, elderly male voice.

“Gladys,” Caroline echoed in a chagrined whisper, then said full voice, “No, this isn't Gladys.”

“Well, may I speak with her?” the man asked haltingly.

She closed her eyes and shook her head, unable to restrain a smile at the humor in the situation. “I'm sorry, but there's no Gladys here.”

“Could you … tell me when she'll be back?”

She pressed two fingers to her forehead, rotated them in a slow circle. “You misunderstand. No one by the name of Gladys lives at this number.”

“What number is this?”

“What number are you calling?”

There was the rustle of paper over the line. Lifting her hair off her neck with one hand, Caroline waited patiently. She looked first at Brendan then at the ceiling.

“Here it is,” the man said slowly, and read off the number he wanted.

“You've dialed wrong, sir. Why don't you hang up and try again?”

“Oh,
I'm
sorry,” he said in genuine dismay. “My fingers aren't as steady as they used to be. I'm so sorry.”

“It's perfectly all right,” she said, and hung up the phone. “That's the second time he's called,” she told Brendan. “Poor old fellow—he sounds to be close to eighty. Why do you think he's calling Gladys so late at night?”

“Beats me,” Brendan said with a grin.

The grin was a little too smug. “Do you
know
that man?”

“Of course not.”

“But you know something.”

He shrugged. “Just that certain urges are timeless.”

Caroline looked doubtful as she returned to the table. “You don't really think that that old man…”

Brendan shrugged again. “You could always ask him next time he calls.”

“Mmm. Now why didn't I think of that?”

“Because,” he drawled, “you're a la-dy.”

The smile she tried to hide came out crooked. She didn't know how any man could be as adorable as Brendan. He was sprawled in his chair with his legs crossed at the ankles. He'd long since kicked off his sneakers. His arms were folded over his chest, and his shirt had come free of his shorts. The way he was looking at her made her heart melt, and when he used that playful drawl … On impulse, she coiled an arm around his neck, leaned down and planted a wet, loudly sputtering kiss on his beard-shadowed cheek.

“What was
that
?” he asked, pulling her onto his lap.

“A zerbert.”

“What's a zerbert?”

“Haven't you ever watched
The Cosby Show
? No, you haven't, because you don't have a television, but I do. When I heard all the hullabaloo about this terrific show, I had to watch it one time. Actually, it was funny enough to tune in more than once, but either I'm not home at the right time, or I'm on the phone, or I don't think to turn on the TV until it's too late.”

“So what's a zerbert?”

“It's the thing that Rudy gives Cliff, the thing I just gave you.” Levering herself from his lap, she reached for the container of Moo Shu Beef.

“What are you doing?”

“Reheating it.”

“You don't like sitting on my lap?”

She was facing the kitchen, with her back to him. At his question, she dropped her chin to her chest. Didn't she like sitting on his lap? A foolish question. Her arms were alive where they'd made contact with his shoulders, and the backs of her thighs weren't the only things still tingling. “I think,” she said, letting her head fall back with an intake of breath, “that I could happily sit on your lap for the rest of tonight and most of tomorrow.”

“I wouldn't mind that,” Brendan murmured in her ear. With barely a sound, he'd come up behind her. The length of his body conformed to hers. His arms framed her sides.

Sighing, she closed her eyes and relaxed her head against his shoulder. “Make that a week,” she breathed.

He touched his lips to her temple. “Uh, could be a problem there. I'm supposed to fly to Detroit on Monday.”

“For how long?”

“Four days.”

“Do you do things like that often?”

“Several times a month.”

She turned her head so that her face was against his neck. “Then I won't have your light to look forward to at night?”

“I could buy a timer.”

“Not the same.”

“You could come with me.” He made a low crisscross of his arms on her middle, bringing her that much more snugly against his thighs. “We could do all kinds of naughty things before and after my meetings.”

“But I have to work.” Of her own accord, she turned and wrapped her arms around his neck. “You're an awesome temptation, though,” she said, and met his lowering mouth. His kiss was deep and thorough. By the time he let her up for air, she was clinging to his shoulders for support. “And an awesome kisser,” she added breathlessly.

“Look who's talking. Here I am, doing my best to show you that I have drives beyond the sexual, and you move this way or twist that way or come up with an expression that reduces me to a mass of live-wire hormones, when we still have to talk.”

The moment's silence was profound. Caroline could clearly feel both his arousal and the tiny tremors caused by the flow of desire through his limbs. She was similarly aroused, though less visibly so, and one part of her wanted nothing more than to reach down and touch him. The other part recognized the truth in his words, and her facial expression acknowledged it.

He took her face in his hands and bent his head until their eyes met. “Tell me you'll sleep with me tonight. I can take all the talking in the world as long as I know that.”