Not that Troy was worried about Kelly. She could obviously hold her own with Dean, which meant, coincidentally, that Troy didn't have to worry about the outcome of his little bet with Robby, either. She'd be gone in a week, more's the pity.
Troy heaved a gusty sigh as he flipped the cards in a game of Klondike. No, he wasn't worried about Kelly. He was sitting here all by himself because he couldn't bear to be with anybody he knew.
He couldn't bear to be with himself, for that matter. Specifically, he wished he could part company from the segment of himself that kept thinking about Felicia.
Since Monday and his altercation with her at the tennis court, he hadn't been able to get the woman out of his mind. He kept seeing the expression on her face when he'd told her the news about Dean. She'd resembled a delicate little bird, yes a delicate little bird that had just gotten shot between the eyes.
Considering how much Troy hated the memory of that expression, it was bizarre how often it kept popping into his head.
"Damn," Troy muttered. "Lost again." With a vigorous movement, he swept the cards into a pile.
All week he'd been trying to tell himself that Felicia's shot bird expression hadn't been his fault. Because, hey, was there anything wrong with telling Felicia that her wonderboy, Dean, had gotten married? All Troy had done was tell her the truth. Dean was married.
But all week his rationalizations had fallen flat. Even if it had been right to tell Felicia about Dean's marriage, Troy hadn't done so in a right way. He'd done it to let fall a drop of poison. And he'd been careful to let that poison fall at the precise moment to cause the most pain, embarrassment, and humiliation possible.
Troy pulled the cards into a tight pile and squeezed his hands around their corners. There was no rationalization for his behavior. He'd been rude. Deliberately, inexcusably rude. He breathed in and out slowly while admitting what that meant.
The knowledge was bone deep, ingrained young and repeated often. The proper thing to do. For all Troy's ne'er-do-well, good-time, occasionally-land-in-the-pokey ways, he never strayed from the "proper thing." Because it wasn't "improper" to live solely off a trust fund, or get arrested for speeding, or even fall into bed with somebody else's wife. But it was exceedingly improper to act rude. It simply wasn't done. And if it was done, then one had to apologize.
Hissing out a breath from between his teeth, Troy tossed the cards onto the table. He jumped from his seat and glared at the hearts and diamonds spread across the gleaming surface. There was no getting around it. He had to apologize. Good God. To Felicia.
###
On Saturday night Dean prowled the downstairs hall, shifting his shoulders in his black tuxedo. This date was going to work. It had to. Starting with the choice of clothes Kelly would make for going to the opera, he would see how completely wrong she was for him. The sexual attraction would diminish. The way she'd hold herself, treat the opera, the boredom he knew she'd exhibit — it would all work toward curing him of this embarrassing attraction.
Dean knew he could not continue to feel passionate about a woman who yawned at La Bohème.
Troy walked out of the dining room to drop into one of the hall chairs. He shuffled a deck of cards while gazing at Dean with something between curiosity and challenge. Robby was already waiting in the hall, swinging his legs over the side of a sofa and blinking at his half-brother. Dean scowled at the both of them. The pair took far too proprietary an interest in his bride, and Dean had a good idea why...
A rustling sound from above had Dean whirling. Dimly, he was aware of Troy halting his shuffling, of Robby freezing in his seat. But mostly he saw Kelly.
Kelly in a lipstick red pantsuit. The material hugged her figure, outlining every curve and angle with confidence and approval. Over this swirled a Chinese silk duster with giant red flowers splashed upon it, hiding and revealing the tight pantsuit. It was an unusual choice, somehow elegant, unexpectedly sophisticated.
And hot.
Dean couldn't swallow. He couldn't move. He was like a pointer who'd found his prey; taut, tensed, trembling.
Her lashes lowered. She started down the stairs. Toe down, heel down, sway of the hip. Dean felt his paralysis leave, replaced by the urge to meet her halfway, to press his body against hers and move her going up again, to the bedrooms.
How he would like to rip off that tantalizing pantsuit and engage in an activity quite different from listening to opera.
The abrupt vehemence of the thought snapped Dean out of it. He took a step back. His eyes narrowed as she slinked herself the rest of the way down the stairs.
Fine, she'd passed the dress test. Her choice of clothes made him want her more than ever. But she was going to hate the opera. He was certain of it. She would yawn, fidget, and thus display her utter incompatibility.
She stopped at the bottom of the stairs, looked him straight in the eye, and tilted her head.
So, do you want me yet? Are you panting and begging on your knees?
She gave him a little smile.
Have I got you completely in my power?
Dean tightened his jaw. Just a few hours, and then he could answer that question in the negative. Yes, he liked what she was wearing, but she was going to hate the opera. Discovering how very different she was, intellectually and socially, would set him free. This — this clawing need would depart for good.
"Well," she asked. Her voice was breathless, sexy. "Are we ready to go?"
His jaw relaxed. He even smiled. "Oh, we're ready." He took her arm. "Are we ever."
CHAPTER EIGHT
"Well, if that wasn't the most — exciting — moving — tremendous piece of stage artistry I have ever seen!" Kelly fanned herself with her program as Dean channeled them through the milling crowd and toward the exit. "Really! The costumes, the drama. The music!" Kelly heaved a deep sigh. "I never knew opera was so exciting."
Dean answered not a word, just kept moving them with stoic persistence toward the side exit door. Kelly allowed herself to be tugged, fanning herself with her program and rather enjoying the man doing the work for a change.
She'd soon discovered that going out on a date with Dean was far different from her usual experience: that being where she researched the show times, where she found a method of transportation, and where, more often than not, she picked up the tab. With Dean, he'd been the one to do all of that, and more. He'd taken care of her, and Kelly couldn't help it. She liked it.
"It's good I self-parked and not valeted," Dean muttered, shoving politely through the crowd. "Or we'd never get home."
"Home?" Kelly's joyful smile faded. "We're going straight home?"
He turned back to shoot her a glance. "Where else would we go?"
Kelly blinked. "I don't know." Indeed, she'd thought five hours more time than she could possibly endure with her husband. Now she felt reluctant to come to the end of it.
He'd been warily attentive all evening. She wasn't used to attentiveness. And he'd come out of his shell for a minute or two there. Although he hadn't answered her rapt comments on the opera just now, his attention on the stage during the performance had been complete and genuine. Kelly could swear he'd been moved. She tilted her head. "I wouldn't mind getting some coffee."
"Coffee." Dean halted his progress through the crowd. Immediately, they were shoved from behind. He had to grab Kelly to keep them both from toppling. With his fingers gripping her shoulders and their bodies pressed together, they were in a sudden embrace. Kelly could feel the strength of his chest against her breast and the barely-there stubble of his chin on her forehead. She could feel the instant blaze beneath her skin.
He grunted and disentangled from her, immediately shooting out his wrist to look at his watch. "Coffee?" he repeated, and glared at the poor watch.
Kelly faltered. Was he glaring at his watch because he didn't want to spend more time with her? Or because his heart had raced just then, too, and he didn't want her to know? To back up a step, had he reall
y been moved by the opera, or was she making up things about his personality again, things to support her own breathlessness in that brief physical contact?
Kelly gazed into the cool, impenetrable eyes that rose to meet hers. Well, perhaps she was making things up, but there was only one sure way to find out. She needed to get to know him, really know him. This evening offered the best opportunity yet. All she had to do was...be careful. She had to make sure to see only what was really there, and not what she wished would be there.
Kelly drew a deep breath and smiled. "Coffee," she insisted, and took his arm. "I'm sure we could find some place open."
###
Dean was appalled. She'd liked the opera. Liked it? She'd loved it! With her delicate fingers now wrapped around his forearm, she hummed Mi chiamano Mimi while keeping pace with his taken-aback strides.
She was supposed to have hated it, been bored, showed her true colors. He was supposed to have gotten free of this unhealthy attraction.
Instead, she was swaying to her memory of the music. Positively glowing with enjoyment, she'd prolonged the evening, insisting on coffee. And he didn't even mind. Mind? He was thrumming with excitement, simply to be near her. Pathetic, that's what he was. Truly pathetic.
During intermission they'd run into Felicia Thurgood, a distant relative and social acquaintance of Dean's who'd been very properly attending the production with her aunt and uncle. But had Felicia, with her modesty and refinement, done one single thing for Dean's libido?
Felicia was like an unlit match compared to the bonfire that was Kelly.
"Here?" Kelly now asked. She scuffed to a stop and turned toward a brightly lit café that filled the limestone corner of a building. "It looks kinda pricey but I have to admit, it's the only place we've seen that's open."
Dean looked up at the elegant café, a place he came often after the opera. He must have directed their steps this way out of habit. "This is fine." He was determined to escape Kelly's clutches yet. One place was as good for the task as another.
Inside, they managed to get seated at one of the plush banquettes by a window. Kelly looked around with a smile that suggested she wasn't seeing any of it; the elegant surroundings, the one-of-a-kind dessert creations, or the distinguished-looking crowd. She waggled her shoulders. "Oh, I'm still all shivery from the music. Maybe I should have herb tea instead of coffee, or I'll never get to sleep tonight."
Dean opened his menu and forced his gaze downward. "Please, order whatever you like." Meanwhile, he reflected that his usual type of companion — a Felicia Thurgood type — would have launched into a detailed critique of the production by now. She would have made astute comparisons between Maria Callas and Joan Sutherland.
All Kelly could say was that she was shivery.
Simplistic and uneducated. The very kind of statement that should have helped turn him off. Dean scowled at his menu and wondered why it didn't.
Maybe because she was just being honest and unpretentious, a voice whispered inside? Giving him her real feelings?
Genuine?
Dean slapped his menu closed.
Cued by the action, a nearby waitress turned her head. "Oh, I'm sorry, sir. Are you ready to order?"
Dean shook his head. Kelly was no more genuine than — than anybody else. "Oh, I mean yes, we're ready," Dean told the waitress, then shook his head again. "That is, are you ready, Kelly?"
His wife looked baffled. "Sure, I'm ready." Raising her eyebrows, she put on a smile and turned her gaze toward the waitress, who seemed a severe sort. "I'd like an orange spice tea, please. Oh, and no rush. I can see you're busy. "
The waitress visibly relaxed, the harsh lines smoothing from her face. "It's a madhouse tonight. Thanks. And what for you, sir?" She turned to Dean.
He blinked. He couldn't remember when he'd been with a woman who actually noticed, or cared about, the feelings of a waitress. "Ahem. I'd just like coffee. Black, please."
"Very good." The waitress made no comment on their lack of interest in the fabulous desserts, but collected the menus and hurried off.
Dean gazed past Kelly to a table with four chattering college students. So, his wife had been considerate. And she seemed genuine. That didn't mean she actually was either one of those things. He was not going to be taken in by the woman. He was not.
"So," Kelly said, "you haven't said what you thought of it yet."
"Of it?"
"The opera." There was a laugh in her voice.
"Oh, yes, of course." Dean pulled in his lips. Nobody had to indulge him. He was always on top of a conversation. "A respectable production. Naturally, I've seen better."
"Really?"
"Well, at the Met..." He waved a hand, remembering a particular version of Rigoletto, with Beverly Sills and Luciano Pavarotti. He'd felt transported —
Shivery, perhaps.
He frowned. "It's hardly ever like that."
"I would think not," Kelly agreed. "Tonight was — fantastic enough."
Their eyes met. And Dean felt the strangest thing. Something like...connection.
No. He flicked his gaze away. There was no connection between them. Ridiculous. And Kelly hadn't felt shivery from the opera. She was just doing what her kind were good at doing, reaching in, calculating what would please. It was only for the purpose of gaining the upper hand, toe-holding an advantage. She meant to eventually place herself in a position to get what she really wanted.
Whatever that turned out to be.
Dean pressed his finger against the edge of his spoon. They would have their refreshment and go home. Evening over, mission accomplished. Not a complete success, but not a disaster, either. He was not entangled in her web.
The harried waitress returned with their drinks, set them down with a smile, and immediately hurried off. "Thank you," Kelly tried to call after her, but she was gone.
Kelly glanced over at Dean and shrugged, smiling. He pressed his finger harder against the spoon edge. She turned her attention to her miniature hot water kettle and peeked inside before glancing up at Dean again. "It's funny, you know. We've done this before."
"Gone to the opera?"
"No." She picked up a sugar packet. "Sat talking late at night over tea and coffee."
Dean stared at her and calmed a quick leap of dismay. Well yes, according to her, and his credit card report, they'd done this before. At 'Nat's'. Allegedly, they'd sat talking for hours. But he couldn't have divulged anything terribly intimate during that time; she would have used it against him by now, tried to pry further in. "I hadn't thought of that," he drawled, and leaned back in his chair.
She tilted him a smile. "You had coffee with cream, before."
Dean snorted.
"You did."
Dean shook his head. "Cream is full of cholesterol."
Kelly's smile curved. "You like it."
Dean slid her a glance. "Maybe." He told himself it was no big deal she knew this much about him, but couldn't help adding, "It isn't good for me."
At that they both stopped. Kelly's smile faded. Dean's face froze. He could tell she was thinking the same thing he was: about the other things he liked that weren't good for him; things like the acts that took place in his recent night dreams. Amazing, athletic, erotic acts. Acts that made him want far too much.
She caught her lower lip in her teeth. "Well, that was then," she said.
The hell it was. It was as if the thing were sitting right there between them, big as a pink elephant, the night they had spent together, the intimacies that had occurred. She could remember. Dean could only guess. But neither one of them was going to bring it up. At least, Dean hoped she wouldn't.
He cleared his throat and scrambled for another topic, anything, to keep the pink elephant from talking. "Since we have the opportunity, perhaps we should speak about Robby."
"Robby?" She appeared understandably confused. The topic came straight out of left field.
But Dean persisted. He was going to avoi
d the pink elephant and at the same time get back to a topic he'd completely dropped since Monday. "Yes, Robby. You have a problem with that?"
Slowly, she shook her head. "No. In fact, I'm glad you brought him up."
"You are?" Dean shot her a stern look. She shouldn't imagine he was going to let her off the hook. "You've been spending time with him," he accused.
"Yes." She looked down and smiled. "And I've gotten to know him a little bit, I think."
"Have you, now?" Dean was feeling better already. The pink elephant had nearly faded and he was on solid ground again. High ground.
"I don't know why anyone would complain about his behavior," Kelly remarked. "He seems to act pretty much his age."
"Yes, well." Dean laughed. "He always straightens up and flies right when he's living with me."
Kelly gave him a strange look. "Really?"
Dean tapped a finger on the edge of his coffee cup. "He knows I won't put up with any nonsense."
"Really." Kelly lifted her hot water and poured. "I find that very interesting." She set down the kettle. "I imagine he doesn't get good grades at boarding school, either."
"You got that right."
"And yet he's smart."
Dean snorted.
"Hey, he managed to hypnotize you."
Dean's eyes narrowed. "Your point?"
Kelly sighed. "My point is that he just needs the right kind of motivation. If he could live at home I think it would make a huge difference." Saying which, she looked directly at Dean.
His brows curled. "Home? Living at 'home' would be a little bit difficult. Kirk has no permanent address."
"Kirk?" Kelly sounded baffled. "Who's that?"
"Who — ? That's Robby's father."
"Oh." Kelly frowned. "You call your father by his first — ? Never mind." She shook her head. "It's not like he has anything to do with it."
"He doesn't?"
"Oh, hardly. I meant with you. Couldn't Robby live with you?"
It took Dean a full minute, staring at her, before he grasped her meaning. Then his brows shot up. "With me? You think Robby should live with me?"
She smiled. "Uh huh."