have him.
She smiled, pleased to have so neatly talked herself sane. "If you're
really hungry, this is the place to be."
Ross was really hungry. He was game to sample most anything and
everything, from clam fritters to little necks on the half shell to
swordfish puffs, a specially of the house.
Chloe savored his enthusiasm, taking pride in pointing out the small
groups of local fishermen on the pier arduously scraping barnacles off
tall-stacked lobster traps. The bright yellow of their rubber overalls
was a bit of sunshine stolen from the sky, adding a spark to the
otherwise sleepy air of the harbor. It was, all in all, a peaceful
lunch, filled with good food, thirst-quenching beer, and conversation
that stuck to the more general, less personal topic of travels, foreign
ports, and favorite hideaways.
"The ocean is beautiful," Ross admitted at one point, "but I still
prefer the mountains. There's nothing more lovely than that feeling of
seclusion you get in a small cabin tucked into a neat cleft, with
stretches and stretches of piggybacked hills to keep the world at bay."
"Then you've never been on the beach on a foggy morning," Chloe returned
softly. "It's like being in a gentle white cocoon, with the solace of
knowing that humanity is near, yet out of sight and sound for as long as
the mist should choose."
"You like New England."
"do."
"You'll be staying here?"
"I will."
He sighed good-naturedly. "Then we'd better get you to the market or you
won't make it through the week, much less the winter."
On that comfortable note, they left the restaurant, spending leisurely
moments wandering along the breakwater before returning to the bike.
"I'll drive this time," Ross said with an arched brow and a palm out for
the keys. Chloe was only too glad to relinquish the responsibility.
Seated comfortably behind Ross, she was more in control of her emotions.
What she hadn't counted on was the broad expanse of his back, the sense
of contentment that flowed through her as the wind rushed freely through
her hair, the gentle fatigue that a night of little sleep, a morning of
busy work, and a frill stomach had induced. Indifference had no place
here. Without a care to the wisdom of the move, she wrapped her arms
about his middle and laid her cheek against his back.
It was heaven, pure and simple. She didn't have a care in the world.
Ross was at the helm, competent and strong. Over the wind that sailed by
came the steady beat of his heart, steadying her in turn. She didn't
know what it was about this particular man that affected her so deeply,
nor did she care just then. It was enough to enjoy the respite from
responsibility and to give herself up to his care, if only for the brief
ride home.
The brief ride home, however, grew longer and longer. Peering around
Ross's shoulder, Chloe saw that they were on a different road entirely.
"Do you know where we are?" she called.
"Roughly. Where's your market?"
He followed her pointing finger, turning this way, then that, until the
town common came into view. Typically New England, it had a
white steepled church at its hub and a variety of rural shops and
boutiques. Chloe found everything she needed at the grocery store,
reluctantly took Ross's suggestion that the plants be saved for another
trip, then climbed behind him onto the bike to return to the house. Not
one wrong turn later she was on her own front steps.
The moment of reckoning was at hand. "Will you be returning to New York
now?" she asked.
He had finished stowing the bike in its proper spot and advanced on her
with a grin. Relieving her of the large brown bag she'd been carrying,
he took her elbow and guided her toward the house. "Not yet."
"You're going back to Lee's?"
"Not yet."
"Then what are you going to do?"
He held the door open for her to pass, and followed her into the
kitchen, where he began to unload and store the groceries as though the
place were his. "I want to make a few phone calls." He glanced at his
watch. "Then wash the car, catch the end of the Giants game, shower and
shave, and take you out to dinner."
His recitation was so nonchalant that Chloe would have guessed he spent
every October Saturday this way, at least as far as the first part went.
As for taking her out to dinner, it had certainly never happened before.
"It's unnecessary," she said.
"Which part-the calls, the car, the game, or the shower?"
"The dinner! Lunch was enough to even us up. There's no need for
anything more."
A muscle worked in Ross's jaw. "It's not tit-foretat, Chloe. I'd like to
take you out to dinner."
"I appreciate the thought, but-"
"No buts. We're going out for dinner. Period."
"What if I have other plans?"
He arched a dark brow. "Do you?"
"I could just as well," she hedged, "for the way you just assume I'm
free."
"Well, are you?"
It wasn't that she didn't want to go to dinner with Ross. On the
contrary. She liked being with him. She just didn't want to get used to
it.
"Chloe?"
"Yes," she said, sighing. "I'm free."
:"Good. Say, about eight?"
,:But-"
Eight it is. And Chloe?"
She felt totally helpless. "What?"
"How about if we dress up?"
"Dress up? I haven't 'dressed up' in months. Things here are very
casual. There's nowhere-"
"There is," he argued gently. "Leave that to me."
Chloe lowered her eyes and studied the floor, then slowly shook her
head. "Ross, I'd really rather-"
"For old times' sake?" he dared ask. "Today we played 'far out.'
Tonight, let's play in.' Come on. How about it? Just this once?"
The odd note of pleading in his voice brought Chloe's head slowly up. He
looked so innocent, so hopeful, that she couldn't turn him down. "Just
this once," she gave in softly, forcing the semblance of a smile to
;Minerable lips.
There was no semblance of anything in Ross's smile. It was blatantly
broad and open, relieved and pleased. It warmed her, reassured her,
amused her. And it most definitely excited her.
That terrified her.
Before she could back out, though, he said, "It's a date. See you at
eight."
He turned and made for the phone, leaving Chloe to gather the pieces of
her fast-splintering resolve and struggle with makeshift repairs before
evening rolled around.
It wasn't an easy task. Ross seemed to be everywhere she turned. He used
her office to make his calls, lounging back in her chair, legs long and
straight, crossed lazily at the ankles, propped on the corner of her
desk.
His presence filled the room so that it took a conscious effort on
Chloe's part to quietly creep in and steal her own work. He followed her
every move with interest, though he was at the same time maddeningly
capable of carrying on his end of what was obviously a business
discussion.
After retreating to the back porch to bask in the rays of the westward
sun, she put her best effort into organizing the papers on her lap. But
her best effort was sadly lacking. Her mind wandered. Then Ross appeared
in the flesh to ask about a bucket, a sponge, and some old towels. He
was right on schedule, his self-satisfied air announced. He vanished,
then reappeared and deposited the car-wash gear on the sandy grass
beside the very same porch on which she sat.
Would he do it here? she wondered. The smooth hum of his car's engine as
he pulled the vehicle close by the side of the house was her answer.
He wanted an audience, the rat.
She should have gotten up and left, but she sat right there in the large
wood-slatted porch chair, watching while he put his best effort into
washing, drying, and polishing his sporty brown BMW As he stretched to
soap the roof, the muscles of his shoulders bunched. When he squatted to
scrub the whitewalls, the muscles of his thighs swelled. When he reached
across the front windshield, his shirt separated from his jeans, giving
fleeting, devastating glimpses of a flat, hard belly. And through it all
was the sight of hands and forearms at work, lightly tanned, softly
haired.
When Chloe had taken as much as she could, she stacked her papers into a
pie, left the chair, and, without a word to explain her sudden
departure, went into the house. To clean? She hated to clean! How else,
though, to expend some of the nervous energy that had gathered inside?
She swept the floors and vacuumed the carpets, all at doublespeed, all
with every bit of elbow grease she could muster. Tables, chairs,
countertops, and shelves met similar fates beneath her dustcloth.
Perspiration beaded on her upper lip. She barely noticed.
The football game offered a different torment, but one that was no less
agonizing. She was polishing the aged oak banister halfway to the second
floor when the familiar sound waited up, and she sank down on the homey
wool runner in defeat. The football game-what memories it brought. That
sound-the excited roar of the crowd, the babble of color commentators,
the endless streams of kickoffs and passes, punts and first downs,
fumbles, tumbles, and pileups-brought back the days in New Orleans when
the men of the family gathered for their weekly fix. Her brother sit had
been so long since she'd seen them. Were they watching this same game?
And how was her father feeling? He wasn't young anymore. Should she make
the effort to go back before ... ?
"Chloe? Are you all right?"
It wasn't until Ross spoke that she realized he'd even approached. Nor
had she been aware of the tears in her eyes. With a hard swallow and a
feeble smile, she willed the sadness away. "I'm fine. I think I'll go
for a run."
Leaving Ross where he stood, she pensively covered the last of the steps
to the top landing, disappeared into her room to change into running
wear, then went back down the stairs and outside. Her sneakers beat
rhythmically down the beach toward the far end of the bay, much as they
had done at roughly the same time the day before. Had it only been
twenty-four hours since Ross had shown up? Already he seemed so at home
here. Worse, at odd times it seemed natural to have him here.
The questions kept pace with her jog. Was it only that Ross was a face
from her past? Was he a link to those people who had once meant so much
to her? Did she crave the warmth of her family? Was Ross, by
association, an extension of them?
Without answers, she paced herself for another ten minutes before
turning around. When she reached the house she didn't bother to stop at
the door. An easy lope carried her into the kitchen, through to the
living room, and up the stairs. No sign of Ross-so much the better.
Jogging in place with the last of her precious energy, she piled her
arms with fresh towels from a surprisingly low stack in the linen closet
and went to her room for a robe. There she stopped dead in her tracks.
Where an open expanse of pale lavender quilt had been when she had left,
was a landscape of mate artifacts. And clothes. His clothes. He had made
himself perfectly at home. This was the limit.
A fit of fury took her to the bathroom door. Better judgment stopped her
on the threshold. The sink taps were running. If she barged in, what
would she find? The tremble that snaked through her had nothing to do
with fear. Rather, she conjured up the image of Ross shaving, a coat of
white lather covering his jaw, a towel-her towel over his loins, and
nothing, nothing else, covering or covered.
As she stood rooted there, the shower went on, the curtain clattered
back on its hooks, and ... her mind's eye saw it all. The towel fell
away. With total nonchalance, he stepped into the shower.
Mercifully, he couldn't hear her low cry as she whirled back toward her
bedroom, cursing both Ross and her imagination all the way. But she
couldn't curb her curiosity entirely. Approaching the bed with an odd
shyness, she studied his things. There was the leather duffel she had
seen earlier, plus a larger, flatter suit bag, unzipped to reveal a pair
of gray-blue tweed lapels. There was the smaller canvas case that had
contained his shaving gear, if the travel-sized bottle of cologne left
behind was any indication. There was a shirt-white, freshly laundered,
lightly starched. There were a tie, clean socks, shorts "Oh, Lord!" she
exclaimed softly. If every stitch of the clothing he intended to put on
was here on her bed, exactly what did he plan to wear for the trip from
the bathroom?
Anticipation constricted her throat, making breathing harder. The
aftereffects of her jog had faded; this quickening was due to desire.
Ross turned her on. Part of her wanted nothing more than to give herself
to him. Give herself? She would take as well, take as she had been too
the I've to do eleven years before. She felt suddenly greedy, possessed
with a need to satisfy the gnawing inside.
"You're back!"
Chloe whirled around.
Undaunted by her alarm, he grinned. "I'd hoped to be out of your way."
He gestured in token apology toward her bed. "Guess I misjudged the
time." He shot a look at the hall. "I helped myself to your supplies.
That okay?"
That okay? The towel was draped around his hips with as much panache-and
as little ceremony-as she had earlier imagined. It hung low on his
stomach and left little to the imagination. She dragged her eyes upward,
following a narrow line of hair past his navel to his waist and slowly
higher.
"Chloe," Ross began in husky chiding, "do you have any idea what it does
