Not in Her Wildest Dreams(27)

"That was bad." She edged back so they weren't touching, trying to catch her breath.

"You wish. Our lives would be a lot simpler if that had been lousy."

She pressed her hand to her lips, holding the tingling pleasure in them.

He stretched out his legs, lifted his hips off the seat while he made  himself more comfortable. "Again with the driveway. If I ever get you  somewhere private- You want to come over?"

She did, but she shook her head, trying to keep a grasp on something like sense.

He swore and opened the door, climbed out and took a big breath of the  cold, wet air. Leaning on the rooftop, he said, "It looks like Lyle's  here, but you come straight out if things don't feel right, ‘kay?"

She slid across, struggling to keep her skirt from scraping up her  thighs as she wiggled past the steering wheel. Standing beside him, she  waved at the strewn papers. "I guess I'll deal with this in the  morning."

He locked the door, handed her the keys. "Good night."

The bulb over the front door was on, casting a reflection of light in the puddle at their feet.

"Are you angry?" she asked him.

"No." His chuckle was dry. "Frustrated. Come home with me."

She swallowed. "It's not a good idea." She handed back his jacket.

He didn't answer as he took it.

She didn't looked back until she stood under the porch light, shivering  and waving away a persistent moth. His silhouette was a still presence,  his lower half visible in the slant of watery light, his upper body and  face unreadable.         

     



 

"Good night," she said again, and stepped blindly into the house, then,  with the door closed behind her, listened for the crunch of his  footsteps on the gravel.

It took a long time for him to walk away.





Chapter Sixteen

The clouds cleared overnight. Saturday morning tried for one last stab  at summer. Nevertheless, when Paige charged over to Sterling's, the  grass soaked her slippers and the breeze cut through her bicycle shorts  and T-shirt, making her aware she was naked beneath both.

She considered going back to put on a bra before confronting him, but  she was already at the fence and he was cracking his back door like he'd  seen her coming, leaving it open as he re-entered the house. She was  just chilled enough to finish stomping across his lawn and step in,  swinging the door closed behind her with a solid bang.

"Good morning," he said, as he opened a cupboard.

"Oh, don't even bother. ‘Is your brother home?'" she mimicked his question from yesterday evening.

"You're not here for coffee?" He held up two mugs. "Or to talk about who Cam thinks might have searched your car?"

"No. Although I did call him and he's going to dust it for fingerprints when he gets a minute."

"Sure you don't want coffee?"

The scent of high-end dark roast had her blood stream clenching in  longing, but accepting a coffee would take the last of the wind out of  her ‘go to hell' sails, so she folded her arms against temptation. "No."

He shrugged, poured for himself and took it to the stovetop. He had a  few tools laid out there and had pulled the vinyl stool away from the  wall that separated the kitchen from the parlor. His white muscle-shirt  gaped at the arm-holes revealing his smooth tanned side and the tuft of  hair in his armpit as he picked up a screwdriver and bent to fiddle with  the switch plate for the light.

He had really nice definition across his shoulders. Really nice. And it  was kind of sexy the way his hair-the messy spikes on his head and the  fine gold sweeping a flat pattern down his forearms and legs-picked up  the sunlight slanting through the window.

Did his mother know he owned cut-offs that disrespectable looking?  Apparently there was some bad boy in him after all. There was also some  beach boy, because his feet were tanned as dark as his legs, except  where a thick, pale stripe underlined his bare toes.

"You're mad, by the way."

She jerked her gaze up to his amused one. Rats. Busted with another  version brewing, to add to the thousand she'd dreamed up last night.  Vexing man, with his mind-bending goodnight kiss.

"I'm very mad," she agreed. "And you don't seem surprised."

He shrugged one shoulder. "Lyle tattled?"

"No, I called Olinda with a question about the audit and she told me you threatened to fire Lyle yesterday."

"It was more of a promise." Sterling turned his attention back to the switch plate.

"One you didn't think was worth mentioning last night?"

"I figured Lyle would tell you if he wanted you to know."

"I wanted to know! If I had known-"

"What?" He paused in his work.

She made an impatient noise and looked away.

"No kiss. Right?"

He was dead right, but it sounded petty when he said it out loud. And  she didn't want to dwell on that insignificant, brain-compressing,  heart-stopping kiss anyway. It had been dirty pool, making a pass  without giving her all the facts.

"You can't do it, Sterling."

"I'm not ready to give up." He used the screwdriver to pick at the paint  that apparently glued the screws into the plate. "But I might have to  throw the main breaker and get rough with it."

"Stop that and look at me. This is important. Work is the only thing Lyle sobers up for. You can't fire him."

"Working safe is the only thing that keeps our employees alive. If he's  not going to follow the rules when it comes to welding, then he doesn't  weld for Roy Furnishings." He started to insert the screwdriver again,  paused to point it at her. "And I have my doubts as to whether he shows  up sober."

She got that same panicky feeling she used to get when her mother's  employer called with the ‘Connie didn't come in for work' complaint.

"I know when Lyle's been drinking and at work he never-"

"I'm not talking about alcohol, although the way he puts it away every  night, he's likely still ninety proof when he comes in. I'm talking  about weed. And other things. I can't prove it, but I know what a drug  problem looks like and he fits the profile."         

     



 

"You're trying to justify firing him."

"No, I'm telling you that if Cam did some serious sniffing around your  basement, you could lose your house. Probably not a good atmosphere for  your nephew, either." He went back to his switch plate.

She shook her head. Lyle's wasn't a drug problem. It was suffering, but  her brother's personal heartaches were his to reveal, not hers. Hell, if  she thought about that awful day for more than twenty seconds, she fell  apart.

"My family self-medicates with alcohol. I can't deny that. But no one  has ever touched anything illegal." That she knew of. "It's not like  they don't have their reasons," she added in a defensive mumble. Her  mother's condition still impacted all of them.

He snorted. "Have you heard the term ‘enabling'?"

"I could write a book," she said flatly. "But Lyle's not always this  bad. Seeing Dad in the hospital wasn't easy for him." That was as far as  she'd go with explaining.

"If you say so." He went back to the switch plate and turned his  knuckles white as he made another attempt on the painted over screw.

"Lefty-loosey, righty-tighty," she said.

"What? Oh. Lefty-loosey." He tried again. The first screw came out.

"I learned that from Lyle," she said with a smarmy smile.

"I would have got there, once you quit distracting me."

"He's really good at his job, Sterling. I wish you didn't hate him so much."

Sighing, he removed the second screw, set the switch plate and screws on  the end of the counter and faced her. "I don't hate him."

"Yes, you do." She shifted her feet in her wet slippers, felt the pull  of one of the stitches she was overdue to have removed. "You go out of  your way to find fault."

"I don't need to go out of my way. It's right there for anyone to see."  He had a lot of his mother in him when he got that pithy tone in his  voice.

"You hate him because you think he somehow knew you and I were in the driveway and sicced Dad on you."

"I don't think it, I know it. He was there, wasn't he? Enjoying the  show? He told me you wanted me to ask you out. That's what he was up to  all along, setting me up."

"No, he wasn't," she insisted. "Even if he was, he was punished, same as  you. Only he didn't get a trip to Harvard out of the deal."

Sterling just glared at her, unwilling to give an inch. Stubborn jerk.

"It was worse for Lyle, you know. Dad blamed him for you being there."

"See?"

"And split Lyle's lip. Then expected Lyle to forgive him. It was a cold bloody summer in that house, let me tell you."

Her mind shied from prying too deeply into that memory; buried beneath  the guilt were darker emotions like anger and a bone-deep resentment  that just weren't healthy. She had wanted to report her father for  hitting Lyle. Lyle had talked her out of it and since she had blamed him  a little bit for Sterling being there, part of her had thought he had  deserved her father's backhand, too.