Sweet Anger(50)

He hadn’t recovered yet from seeing her stretching in the sunlight. That ridiculous T-shirt was sexier than any negligee. Did she have any idea at all what a tantalizing picture she made when she arched her back and stretched with feline laziness? Not only could he see the silk and lace confection of her panties, but the cotton T-shirt had stretched over her breasts and made them a present for his eyes.

He loudly cleared his throat. “Should I heat this coffee up or do you want to make a fresh pot?”

“I’m out of coffee. You can heat that up in the microwave oven on the counter.”

They demolished the donuts in record time. As they sipped the reheated coffee, Hunter surveyed the room. It had a tall cathedral ceiling, warm wood paneling, and a parquet floor dotted with braided rugs. The furniture was tasteful and expensive but not ostentatious. A stone fireplace took up one wall. From this central room, he could see into a dining alcove; the small kitchen and a hallway he presumed led into the bedroom, or bed-rooms. It was small, but the vistas its wide windows afforded gave it a feeling of spaciousness.

“This is a nice house. Does it belong to you?”

“No. To friends of my father. It’s their vacation home. They offered it to us anytime we wanted. I haven’t abused the privilege, but I knew it wouldn’t inconvenience them if I used it this summer.” Perching on the arm of the sofa, she gazed out the wide picture window. “In the wintertime, you can sit here by the fire and watch the snow fall.”

“Do you ski?”

“Yes, but I’m a better observer than participator.”

Curious, he walked around the room, stopping to inspect this and that, thumbing through the magazines left on the coffee table. She marveled that he could be so composed. He had virtually barged in on a woman who hadn’t even washed the sleep from her eyes or had her morning coffee. Yet he was making himself right at home. He’d offered no explanation for his untimely arrival.

But then she hadn’t asked for one, had she?

Even though she was sitting here with nothing on but her nightclothes, her feet and legs bare, her hair straggling like an unruly mop and her eyes still puffy from a sound sleep, she didn’t feel nearly as disconcerted as the situation warranted. Why not? she wondered.

Could it be because he seemed so at ease? Or could it be that her mind was so preoccupied with him, it didn’t have room to think about anything else?

He looked lean and hard and infinitely male as he prowled the room. The down vest he’d worn against the chilly air of late summer had been tossed negligently over the back of a chair. His western-cut shirt tapered to fit his torso. His boots were scuffed and looked perfectly at home with his jeans, which were far from new. Their snug fit made his sex unquestionable. Frequently her eyes strayed toward his thighs.

He was wearing his glasses, she supposed, since he had driven over. She remembered seeing an unfamiliar car parked at her curb. She also remembered how the sunlight had painted streaks of fire through his wind-blown hair.

“What’s this?” he asked, bending down over the card table where a jigsaw puzzle was spread out.

“I brought it with me,” she said, moving off the arm of the couch to join him. “I knew I’d have to fill many idle hours up here. So I brought a stack of books I’d been wanting to read. This is another of my projects.” She picked up a piece and after studying it a moment, locked it into place.

“Very good,” he said, smiling down on her. “Do you do these all the time?”

“I never have before. But I’ve gotten in hours of practice.”

The puzzle held a special symbolism for her. She hadn’t started it as most people would, from the outside. She had started in the center and worked outward.

To her the center represented the nucleus of herself, the things she believed in, her mores and values, her thoughts and convictions, the things she held near and dear, the parts of her personality that had been nursed through childhood and that made Kari Stewart Kari Stewart.

That was what she had started with when she arrived. And gradually, daily, she had added pieces to the puzzle. She relived the frightening childhood experience of losing her mother, the life she’d had with her father, her college days, the beginnings of her career, the development of her friendship with Pinkie, her meeting Thomas. She recalled as many specific days of their life together as she could. She relived the horror of his death. She chronicled each time she’d seen Hunter McKee. The picture on the puzzle had begun to emerge from the myriad pieces.

It was almost complete now. “When it’s finished, I’ll feel that I know myself better.” She hadn’t intended to speak the thought aloud. Quickly she glanced up at Hunter. He would think she was a fool. But apparently he understood this self-therapy. He nodded his head. She hoped he wouldn’t ask her to elaborate, and he didn’t.