“You want me to act like an admiring monk, is that it?”
She rested the palms of her hands against the edge of the sink, staring straight ahead, not knowing what she wanted, afraid of things her body was compelling her to do.
“I don’t know,” she choked, near tears, so confused by her impulses to trust him, those impulses juxtaposed against past experiences that had always turned out disastrously when she too eagerly placed her trust in another person.
A heavy hand fell on the side of her neck, kneading lightly. “I’m sorry, Allison. I promised, didn’t I?” Even the touch he bestowed so casually made her heart race. Silence ticked by for several seconds, then Rick said quietly, “But after what happened at the door when I came in, I thought—”
“My mistake, letting it happen, okay?” she quickly interjected, afraid to turn around and face him. “I was glad to see you, and you just caught me a little off guard, that’s all.”
“You feel you have to erect a guard against me, is that what you’re saying?”
“I . . . yes,” she admitted.
“Why?”
She refused to answer. His warm hand lowered to the center of her back and began stroking up and down. “I’m not him, Allison,” he said in the gentlest tone imaginable.
The hair at the back of her neck bristled. Her shoulder blades tensed. “Who?” she snapped.
“I don’t know. You tell me.” His hands circled her upper arms and forced her to turn around.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she lied, staring at the floor.
“Neither do I. What was his name?”
Her lips compressed into a thin line. He watched her face for every nuance of truth while dropping his hands from her. He stepped back, crossing his arms, then his calves, leaning his hips against the edge of the kitchen stove behind him.
“Do you want to tell me about him?”
“Him! Him!” she spouted belligerently. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The man who made you so defensive and jumpy and wary of me, that’s who I’m talking about. What was his name?”
“There is no such man!”
“Bull!” he returned tightly.
Her eyes met his determinedly. “There is no man in my life,” she stated unequivocably.
“No, but there was, wasn’t there?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“Like hell it isn’t. If he’s what’s keeping you from me, it’s my business.”
“I’m what’s keeping me from you! I’m cautious, all right? Is there any crime in that?” she shouted in a sudden display of hot temper.
Rick scowled, studying her with a hard expression about his mouth. “Boy, he soured you on men but good, didn’t he? Made up your mind you’ll never trust one of us again, is that it?”
“Trust is another thing that never profited me one damn bit in the end,” she stated bitterly.
“And so you’re done with it, no matter what your gut feeling tells you?”
She suddenly bristled, gesturing angrily with her hands in the air, storming away. “I don’t have to stand here for this . . . this third degree! This is my house, and just because I let you come in and cook breakfast for me doesn’t give you the right to assess my motives. I thought of you, too, during the last week.” She swung around to face him. “Is that what you want to hear? All right, I did! And I knew before the second day was gone that I wanted to see you again. But don’t probe into my past if you want to share any of my future, be it a day, a week, or a month, because I won’t stand for it!” She was back before him, practically nose to nose, bristling with defensiveness, striking out at him because she was afraid of the overwhelming urges she felt to like him, to trust him, maybe even to fall in love with him.
He stared at her angrily for a moment, and she saw his eyebrows finally relax from their tightly knit curl, his mouth take on a less pinched expression as he made a conscious effort to quell the urge to argue.
“You’re right. It’s none of my business,” he agreed, backing off, shelving the issue for the time being. “Peace offering, all right?”
He pulled away from the stove and dipped a hand into the brown paper bag that was still on top of the counter. The next moment he lifted a camera in a black leather case. He held it aloft in invitation, its wide, woven strap swinging in the sudden silence between them.
Her animosity fell away with amusing speed, to be replaced by excited surprise. “The . . . the Hasselblad?” she asked breathlessly.
“The Hasselblad.”
She reached for it, but he pulled it back just beyond her fingertips. “Wait a minute. Aren’t you the woman who said you’d sell your soul for a chance to use it?”
Here it comes, Allison thought, the proposition.
But he only grinned one-sidedly, leaning over from the hip to place his mouth within easy kissing distance. “I won’t ask for your soul, just one little kiss to bring peace back between us.”
She gave him the price he asked, a quick, fleeting smack, but he still refused to give her the camera. “Friends?” he inquired, grinning into her face.
“Friends,” she agreed, and snatched the camera from his hand.
Behind her she heard a throaty chuckle as she whirled toward the sunny living room to sit cross-legged on the shag rug. He ambled over and joined her, sitting almost knee to knee with her. He produced a roll of film and smiled, watching as she loaded the camera, exhilarated now, all attention given over to the coveted piece of equipment.
“Here’s the film advance.” He pointed to a silver crank. “And here’s the shutter release.” Her face was a picture of radiance as she looked down into the magnified square to study the light falling through the long, narrow windows. She spun around on her derrière, then rolled to her knees, walking on them across the hardwood floor while scanning the room through the viewfinder, looking for a setting that caught her eye.
The camera fell against her tummy. “Over there!” she ordered, pointing.
“Where? What?” He played dumb.
She wagged a finger at the floor to an oblique square of morning sun. “Over there, quick! Just sit the way you are, only do it over there, and face the kitchen so your face is sidelit.”
He complied, smiling, sitting on the floor in the warm wash of sunlight, drawing his knees up, crossing his arms loosely over them. Allison lay on the floor before him, flat on her belly with her elbows braced on the floor, directing the tilt of his head in this direction and that. The natural window light illuminated the side of his face, put highlights on one side of his thick hair, lit the top of an ear, and left a solid line of shadow beyond the ridge of his forehead, nose, lips, and chin. She took two shots, then popped up, dragged a schefflera plant across two feet of floor, and ordered, “Now, with the shadows of the leaves on your face . . . but no smiles, okay? Turn a little more toward the window and give me that handsome seriousness and let the mouth speak of thoughtfulness.” The shutter clicked two more times, and her exuberant face appeared above the Hasselblad, a puckish smile on her mouth. “You’re stunning, Rick Lang, do you know that?”
The camera freed her and let her natural impulses bubble out. With it around her neck, she felt totally uninhibited, released to speak what she felt. Only without the camera was she thwarted by the idea of getting involved with personal emotions.
“How about the basket chair?” he suggested next.
“Ahhh, perfect. Get in.”
He pushed himself up off the floor and plopped onto the cushioned seat while she directed the chair opening toward the light source with an acute instinct for shadow effect and camera angle. She peered down into the viewfinder, checked the composition, lowered the camera, and looked around. She bounced across the room to drag a potted palm over, knelt down, and framed the shot with a spiky frond, making sounds of delight deep in her throat when she found the composition to her liking.
When she’d satisfied her artist
’s eye at that setting, she scanned the room, pointed to the French doors leading to the porch, and asked if he’d mind going out there where it was cold.
“What’ll you give me?” he teased. “I work by the hour, you know.”
She plopped a passing kiss on his mouth, hardly conscious of what she was doing, so caught up was she with the joy of photographing with the prized piece of equipment.
She framed him through the panes of the French door, adjusting the angle of the camera time and again in an attempt to create a well-composed photo without hiding his features behind the crossbars of the window frames.
“Hey, hurry up!” he complained, his voice coming muffled through the closed door. “My nipples are puckering up.”
She laughed, snapped two quick ones, told him he could come back in, then admitted, “Mine, too,” adding impudently, “they always do when I get turned on, and your camera really turns me on.”
“Only my camera, huh?”
“I didn’t say that, did I?”
“Well, let me know when you want to indulge in a little puckering. Maybe we can work together on it, without the help of porch or camera.”
When she’d exhausted all the best possibilities the apartment offered for settings, she was still rarin’ to go. “How about doing some outside shots?” he suggested. “There’s a Winterfest going on at Lake Calhoun this afternoon, and I was planning to ask if you wanted to go over and fool around anyway.”
“Fool around?” she repeated archly.
“With the camera, of course,” he returned. “There’s all kinds of stuff going on over there. What do you say we bundle up warm and check it out?”
He was irresistible, and she did want a chance to get to know him better. And she did want to work with the camera a little longer. And she did so enjoy being with him.
“Why not?” Allison replied, jubilant at the thought of spending a whole afternoon with him without having to talk her emotions into a state of equilibrium because privacy offered him a chance to kiss or touch her.
Chapter
EIGHT
SHE donned her disreputable bobcap and scarf, and thigh-high boots lined with fur and a hiplength jacket belted at the waist. From the trunk of his car Rick dug out an enormous parka. He let the hood flop down his back, but the wolf-fur lining, framing his chin and jaw, set off his masculinity to great advantage. Even before they got in the car, Allison snapped a shot of him, having adjusted the f-stop to compensate for the blinding brightness of the snow outside.
It was a dazzling day, as bright as their spirits as they drove the short distance to Lake Calhoun. The Winterfest was already in full swing when they arrived, the activities taking place right on the frozen lake, which looked like a confetti blanket, its white surface dotted with multicolored wool caps and bright ski jackets. Wandering from event to event, Allison snapped random shots—two runny-nosed eight-year-olds angling for sunfish through a hole in the ice; the laughing face of a man who’d fallen onto his back like an overturned turtle during a game of broomball; a young married couple sculpturing an ice mermaid by wetting down snow and compacting it with mittens covered with plastic bags; a string of red-nosed youngsters at the finish line of an ice-skating race, their lips set in grim determination; a boy and girl kissing, unaware that Allison was snapping them because their eyes were closed; an ice boat with its orange-and-yellow sail furled by the breeze, its rider hanging over the edge at a precarious angle; Rick lying flat on his back, making an angel in the snow; the grand, old Calhoun Beach Hotel Building—which was a hotel no longer—standing across the road from the lake in majestic watchfulness while funseekers romped and played and totally disregarded the fact that the temperature was only twelve degrees above zero.
Rick brought hot chocolate from a stand that had also been on the ice. They sat on a snowbank, squinting through the steam rising from their cups, watching a judge measuring a ridiculously short pickerel with a tape measure while a small boy looked on hopefully. Allison felt Rick’s eyes on her instead of on the fishing contest, and turned to meet his gaze.
“You’re the neatest girl I ever met, you know that?”
Flustered, she looked away and hid behind a sip of cocoa.
“Don’t hide, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’re game for anything—bundling up and clumping out here in this cold, taking pictures of stuff that to some would seem so ridiculously bourgeois they’d scoff at the suggestion of even coming here, much less recording the homey events on film.”
“It’s been fun,” she replied honestly, then braved a look into his eyes, adding, “and I’ve had a wonderful day.”
“Me too.”
For a moment she thought he was going to kiss her. With her heart already fluttering greedily in her throat, she suddenly didn’t trust her own common sense, so she put on a pained expression and informed him, “But my derrière is so damn cold there’s no feeling left in it.”
Abruptly he laughed. “How ’bout your nipples?” he teased secretively. “Anything happening to them?”
“None of your business, you dirty old lech.”
He licked his lips, gave her a suggestive head-to-toe scan, and grinned. “Like hell it isn’t.”
She hauled herself to her feet and reached out a mittened hand to give him a tug. When he was on his feet, Rick bracketed her temples with gloved hands. Her heart went a-thudding in anticipation, but he only pushed her drooping bobcap up out of her eyes and teased, “Nice cap, Scott.” Then he kissed the end of her icy nose, bundled her up against his side, and hauled her with him, pressed hip to hip while they walked to the car.
Pulling up in her driveway sometime later, she moved a hand toward the door handle. His glove crossed over her arm. “Wait,” he commanded.
She listened to his footsteps crunch around the rear of the car, and a moment later her door was opened. She had to giggle at his gallantry when she was dressed in her urchin’s outfit, totally unflattering and unfeminine.
He followed close behind her as they climbed the stairs in slow motion. At the landing, when she aimed the key for the lock, he took it from her hand and opened the door for her, then dropped the key into her mitten. He looked into her eyes and once more pressed his palms to the sides of her head and pushed the bobcap back where it was supposed to be. But he left his hands on her cheeks this time and said into her eyes, “I want to come in.”
Her lips opened to say no, it was dangerous, their feelings were rioting too fast, they needed time to assess what was happening. But before she could speak he slowly lowered his mouth to hers and her heart fluttered to life and sent quivers to her breasts. As the kiss lingered, he released her face, taking her in his arms to pull her against his bulky jacket.
She pressed her mittened hands against his back, drawing close and moving her mouth languorously beneath his, opening her lips to invite his seeking tongue. It was hot, wet, tantalizing, seductive, and it stroked away the memory of Jason. His hands roved down the back of her jacket, then underneath it. Spreading his hands wide, he gathered her close against him, spanning her icy buttocks with warm, wide palms.
His lips left her mouth. He bent his face into the warm hair at her neck, burrowing deep to find skin inside the folds of scarf. “Allison,” he murmured gruffly, “let me come in. I want to warm you up.”
You already have, she thought, delighting in the feel of his palms against that intimate part of her body. He drew back, deliberately lifting first the hem of his parka, then her jacket, recapturing her buttocks to pull her against the long ridge of flesh inside his jeans, to let it speak for him as he pressed its heat against her stomach. He undulated his hips, grinding against her while on her backside his hands asserted themselves and controlled her.
He kissed her with a wild thrusting of tongues, rhythmically matching the strokes of tongue and hip before jerking his mouth aside and begging in a raspy voice, “Let me come in, Allison.”
She knew what he was asking and was abashed to find she
wanted to do his bidding, to invite him not only into her house, but into her body as well. But she pressed her hands against his chest, begging, “Please, Rick, please stop. It’s too soon, too sudden.”
“What are you afraid of?” he asked.
She swallowed, reached for his hands, and brought them between them, folding his palms between her own while looking deeply into his eyes.
“Me,” she admitted.
He drew in a deep, shuddering breath, put a few more inches between their bodies, and asked, “So you’d turn a man away hungry?”
“Is it supper you want?” She knew it wasn’t, not any more than it was what she wanted.
“I guess I’ll have to settle for it, if that’s the only way I can stay.”
It seemed a reprieve. She wanted him with her yet, and supper was a plausible excuse to keep him a while longer.
“I have a pizza in the freezer. How does that sound?”
“Like a hell of a poor second, but I accept.”
They moved inside, but when the door was closed and the lights snapped on, there was no denying that the sexual tension remained, as vibrant as before. She hung up their jackets and turned from the pursuit in his eyes, telling her heart to calm down. But it felt deliciously good, this business of being pursued. It was beginning to dawn on her why Jason Ederlie had eaten it up so.
Allison was halfway across the living room when she was swung around abruptly by an elbow. “What’s the hurry?” he teased, swinging her against him, holding her loosely around the waist, leaning back so their hips touched.
“Are you about to extract payment for the use of your Hasselblad?” she asked, resting her hands on his inner elbows, striving to keep the mood light.
“Not at all. You can keep it awhile . . . unconditionally.”
“God, how can you let a camera like that lay around in its case all the time, then lend it out to some girl who . . .who . . .”
“Puckers up at the sight of it?” he finished. “Well, if you can’t make the girl pucker up at the sight of you, you do the next best thing, right?” His hand wandered to her breast to brush it testingly with the backs of his fingers.