Secrets of Paternity(17)

She'd just taken a seat on the sofa when James joined her, a glass of  white wine in each hand. She murmured her thanks. He sat on the couch,  too, although not next to her.

"I keep forgetting to ask you about your bike," she said.

"What you paid will cover the damages."

She wondered whether that was the truth, but she figured she would never know for sure. "Will you get it back soon?"

"The new fender needs to be chromed. Next week, I think." He laid an arm  along the back of the sofa and angled toward her more. "Do you like  your job?"

"It's okay."

"Something else you'd rather be doing?"

"I'm not trained for much else."

"No secret passion?"

Now there was a loaded question. She hid a smile behind her wineglass as she took a sip.

When she didn't answer, he questioned her further. "Obviously you like horses. Would you like to work with them again?"

"Are you running an employment agency for the Brenley family?" she asked, amused.

"I'm just curious."

"Okay. Well, I think I've had my fill of horses, except to ride now and  then. Taking care of them and the stables was hard, physical work."

"Isn't waitressing hard?"

"Yes, but differently. My feet take the most abuse." She watched his  gaze slide to her feet. She wore soft leather slip-ons, old and  comfortable.

After a few seconds, he set down his wineglass, moved closer to her and picked up her feet.

She jackknifed forward, trying to pull free of his grasp but couldn't. "What are you doing?"

"Pampering you a little." He stared at her, almost unblinking, daring  her with his eyes. Daring what? She swallowed. It had been so long since  anyone had done anything just for her.                       
       
           



       

Well, why not give in? She let him lift her feet into his lap. He pulled  off her shoes in a way that felt downright erotic, almost as sexy as if  he'd undressed her. Oh, yes, it had been way too long. She closed her  eyes and leaned back, then felt her glass being taken from her hand. She  heard a soft tap as he put it on the coffee table.

He pushed a thumb into each instep. She drew in a hard, quick breath at  the pain and pleasure his touch brought. Her fingers dug into the suede  fabric. She relaxed them one at a time, then her hands, then her arms.  He didn't speak. She wasn't sure whether she wanted the distraction of a  conversation or not. Without it she focused on his touch, couldn't  ignore it.

He had magic hands, slow, steady, sensational. He deepened the pressure,  rotated her ankles, massaged each toe, found every sore spot and  massaged it into mush. A sigh escaped her, although sounding  embarrassingly like a moan. Except for a spa day at a salon that some of  her girlfriends had arranged before she moved to San Francisco, no one  had touched her for longer than a second or two, and nothing as intimate  as what James was doing, even though his hands never strayed farther  than her ankles.

Her body warmed on its own in reaction, his touch as arousing as if he  were stroking her body. The denim fabric of his jeans under her calves  abraded sensually. Her knee-length skirt had slipped back enough to  expose her knees and a few inches of each thigh. She decided not to yank  the skirt over her knees, not wanting him to know how much his touch  affected her.

Maybe she shouldn't care. They were adults, with needs … .

No. A lifetime connection awaited them through Kevin. Better to keep the  relationship close but not intimate. They would share grandchildren at  some point.

Grandchildren! She opened her eyes at the image.

"What's wrong?" he asked, but not taking away his hands.

A bell began to chime, a timer, she thought, as it didn't shut off. Saved by the bell. Dinner was ready.

His hands stilled, but he didn't take them away. Instead he curved them  over her feet, keeping them warm. "What's wrong, Caryn?" he repeated.

Seeing him so close, feeling his legs under hers and his hands touching  her bare feet, she didn't want to have to hold back. "I just realized we  will probably share grandchildren eventually."

James froze in place. Words stuck in his throat.

"Does that make you feel old?" she asked.

"Old" was the least of it, he thought. Considering he was looking  forward to becoming a father, the idea of becoming a grandfather was  almost beyond comprehension. "I do not feel old," he said. "And you  don't look old enough to be a grandmother."

"Thank you. I don't think I'm ready for the pitter-patter of little feet  at this point in my life, either. I'm just getting Kevin out of the  house, if only downstairs, so far."

Something inside him shifted. The path to marriage and fatherhood made a sharp left turn. "A grandchild wouldn't live with you."

"One would hope not, anyway, but it happens. Regardless, I would be very  involved. I know that about myself." She pulled her feet free, then  stood and slid her feet into her shoes. "Thank you for the foot rub.  Dinner is ready, I gather?"

Maybe it was safe to enjoy a more intimate relationship, after all, he  thought. She wouldn't want marriage and children, but maybe she would be  agreeable to more than friendship with him. It might complicate things  later on, depending on how the relationship ended.

He would give it some thought … .

He considered it all through dinner, even though they talked of other  things, of Kevin and his childhood, of their own lives, of some of his  funniest pursuit stories. She insisted on helping with dishes. Then the  moment he shut the dishwasher he came to a decision. He wouldn't kiss  her. Wouldn't take a chance that their lifelong relationship-to-come  would be damaged by a short-lived affair, which it would have to be. She  didn't want children. Plus, they had a child together already. That  couldn't be acknowledged to the world in general. Enough strangeness  existed in the relationship without adding to it. Why complicate it?

"I'd like to see your garden before I go," she said.

You're going already? It had been a long time since he'd enjoyed himself  as he had over dinner. Maybe Cassie was right. Maybe he'd been aiming  too young. There was something to be said for life experience.

The up lights he'd installed around the yard spotlighted elegant trees  and a bed of mums in full bloom. They walked a winding path.

"This is so nice," she said, looking up at a liquid amber tree. "We used to have one of these," she said, walking toward it.                       
       
           



       

Along the way she dipped her fingers in a birdbath, and her smile turned into a grin.

He shook his head slowly, cautioning her, anticipating what she was about to do.

But she ignored his warning and flicked a few drops of water at him and  ran. He threatened her, then caught up with her. They were both smiling.

She rested her back against the liquid amber, catching her breath, and  reached up to pluck a leaf from a nearby branch. Her fingers worked at  it, shredding it thoroughly, then she sprinkled the shreds over his head  and laughed when he shook them off and onto her instead.

She was a dangerous woman when she smiled at him like that. He knew her  life wasn't easy, that she'd suffered a lot, some of it needlessly  because of Paul's gambling addiction, but she seemed to be moving on. He  didn't want to do anything to hurt that process. But damn, when she  looked at him as she was …

He brushed his hand over her head, dusting away the leaf bits. Then  somehow he was cupping her face with one hand, then the other. He'd  kissed her yesterday, but that was different. That was almost in  sympathy. This would not be. Tell me if you want me to stop, he told her  silently.

If she answered, it was silent, too. She lifted toward him. Her arms  slipped around his waist. Their lips touched. Melded. Opened. She rose  on tiptoe; he wrapped her in his arms to keep her steady … and close … and  closer yet. Hints of mint-chocolate-chip ice cream flavored the kiss.  What started cool, heated. Mint and chocolate gave way to destiny. There  was no other way to describe how he felt, how she felt to him, how they  felt together, as if they'd both been waiting for this moment since  they'd created a life together anonymously all those years ago.

He angled closer, pressed her to the tree. His chest cushioned her  breasts, which had nourished his son, their son. He slid his hands to  her sides, his palms pressing the sides of her breasts. She stopped  kissing him back, stopped moving, and waited instead, not breaking  contact, but just waiting. He lifted his head, held her gaze, moved his  hands until he covered her breasts, her nipples hard against his palms.  After a moment she grasped his wrists. He stopped, but she shook her  head, closed her eyes and used her hands to make his move.