He's the One Page 11

  “You’re not over here de-stressing from some over-the-top job, are you? I mean, that would explain your aberrant behavior.”

  “There is nothing aberrant in my behavior.” Well, not much. Or at least not what she was thinking.

  He had never had a relationship of the type he wanted to have with her. Purely personal, possibly permanent, and definitely passionate.

  “Right.”

  He couldn’t decide if he wanted to laugh again or shake her. The woman was annoyingly stubborn and fixated. “I’m thirty years old. I know my own mind.”

  “What size was your last girlfriend?”

  “What?”

  “Dress size. What did she wear?”

  “I don’t know the American equivalent.”

  Her lips twisted. “Uh-huh. Just show me with your hands how big around her waist was.”

  He did.

  Tabby nodded, her expression gleaming with triumph. “Exactly. Probably a size six.”

  “What the hell does that have to do with us?”

  “You normally date women like my sister. Men like you do.”

  “According to you, all men prefer women like your sister.”

  She bit her lip. “They do.”

  “I don’t, and do not start yammering about dress sizes again. You are perfect as you are.” In fact, she was luscious. “I don’t want you to be any different.”

  “This is really weird for me.”

  “Let’s spend the rest of the evening together and see if we can’t get you used to it.”

  “All right.” She said it grudgingly, but he could have sworn her green eyes reflected the same yearning that made it so impossible for him to leave her alone.

  The next morning, Tabby awoke to the strident ring of the telephone. She fumbled for the receiver from underneath the light comforter on her bed.

  “Hello?”

  “Did I wake you, dear?”

  “Hi, Mom. Yes, you woke me.”

  “Sorry, you’re usually up early on Sunday, but I couldn’t help noticing you missed church.”

  “I slept through my alarm.”

  “Up late?”

  “You know I was.”

  “Later than I think?”

  Tabby sat up and fluffed the pillows behind her as a backrest. “I did not bring him home with me!”

  Not that she would have turned him down—she didn’t think—but he hadn’t asked, which made her protestation sort of overdone.

  “I see. So, is he nobility, former spy, what?”

  “What do you see?”

  “Nothing in particular. It’s a phrase we mothers use. I’m sure you’ll find yourself saying it someday, too. It means we’re thinking over what our child just told us. Now answer my question.”

  “The answer is: I don’t know. We didn’t talk about his past.” He’d managed to neatly sidestep any conversational byways in that direction.

  “You spent the whole evening so wrapped up in each other’s company, you barely noticed when everyone else had left and you didn’t talk about his past? What did you talk about?”

  “Everything. It was wonderful, Mom.”

  It had been like talking to a really good friend, one she’d known forever . . . which had been as worrisome as his strange fixation on her instead of Helene. She could really fall for this guy. That would leave her open to major pain when he figured out that James Bond was supposed to date Octopussy, not Anne of Green Gables.

  “Everything including why he’s in Port Diamond?” her mother probed.

  “He inherited his house from an uncle on his mother’s side. She was American.”

  “Is she dead?”

  “No, but she’s got her British citizenship now.”

  Silence. Then, “So is he sticking around or what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Does he have a job?” her mother asked suspiciously.

  Tabby grinned. Overprotective, but lovable. “I suppose. He certainly seems to have money, but the truth is we spent a lot of time talking about me. It was weird.”

  Her mom laughed. “If you dated more, that kind of thing wouldn’t be so strange. He’s been pumping your dad and sister about you for a couple of weeks now.”

  Tabby smoothed the sheet and blanket over her legs. “Why do you suppose he waited to approach me?”

  “Helene said you avoided them whenever he was with her. Maybe he thought you weren’t interested.”

  “I didn’t want to intrude.”

  “I don’t think he would have seen it as an intrusion.”

  “No, I guess not.” But how was she supposed to know? This whole thing of being the sole recipient of a man’s interest was new to her, and she couldn’t help feeling it wasn’t fated to last very long.

  “My crab salad went over very well last night. I knew it would.”

  It was all Tabby could do not to blurt out the truth. “It’s a wonderful recipe.”

  “Yes.”

  They chatted for a few more minutes and then her mother rang off.

  Tabby was in the shower when her doorbell rang. She grabbed a towel, did a quick dry-off, and then wrapped it around herself sarong-style to answer the door.

  Expecting her sister or someone equally innocuous—like anyone else—she reared back in shock when she saw Calder standing on the other side.

  “Good morning, love.” His dark eyes made a meal of her, and the oversized bath sheet felt like the most revealing piece of lingerie she owned.

  “I wasn’t expecting you this morning.” He’d said he would call, not come calling.

  His dark brows rose. “Then who were you expecting?”

  “No one in particular.”

  “But definitely not me?”

  “Honestly? No.”

  He frowned. “Do you frequently answer the door wearing nothing more than a towel when you don’t know who is on the other side?”

  “Of course not. How often do you think I’m in the shower when someone stops by?”

  “I can only hope the occurrence is rare.” He sounded annoyed. He certainly looked it.

  Which was interesting, if confusing.

  “Getting a visitor at my door is pretty rare. People usually stop by the store to see me.”

  “If you didn’t think it was someone you knew, then you thought you were opening the door to a perfect stranger?” he asked as if carefully putting a puzzle together and not liking the way it was turning out.

  “Nobody’s perfect,” she quipped, but his stiff expression said he didn’t appreciate the joke. She sighed. “I don’t know why it matters so much, but I thought it might be a book delivery made to my home address by accident. It’s happened before, though never on Sunday. It could have been someone looking for directions, too.”

  Suddenly, he was a stranger. No longer the charismatic man of the night before, this guy emanated menace and made James Bond seem like a pussycat.

  “If I understand you correctly, you are telling me you opened your door dressed like that”—he pointed to her towel-clad self with a precise movement—“believing a stranger was on the other side?” His tone could have frozen underground lava.

  “That bothers you?” Okay, so it was hard to interpret his reaction any other way, but the concept was so foreign to her, she felt like she needed a translation guide to deal with it.

  “You have to ask?” He looked pointedly at the swell of her breasts revealed above the towel. “Do you mind stepping back inside to continue this discussion?”

  “Uh . . . no problem.” She moved back a couple of paces.

  He followed, shutting the door behind him, and then reached for her. “In answer to your rather obtuse question, yes, I am more than mildly irritated that you would answer your door wearing nothing but a towel if you were expecting someone besides me . . . or maybe your mother.”

  “That sounds awfully territorial.” And the fingers wrapped around her upper arms certainly felt like it.

  “It is.”<
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  “Oh.” She licked her lips nervously, and then bit them when his expression turned from disapproving to heated. “Um, I don’t think we have that kind of relationship yet.”

  “I beg to differ. I made my intentions clear last night, Tabby, and I won’t share.” His voice was like razed steel. His hands moved to cup her face, his touch gentle even if his tone was not. “I don’t want anyone else seeing you like this.”

  “No one else wants to.”

  He shook his head. “You cannot be that naive. You are a beautiful, desirable woman and even if you were a wrinkle-ridden hag, it wouldn’t be safe to answer your door practically naked.”

  “But Port Diamond—”

  “Is on a major highway, and small towns have crazy, nasty people, too, love.” He sounded so serious, so concerned.

  And she realized he was probably right. It was just that living her whole life in a small town, she sometimes forgot the world was bigger than her own backyard. “I won’t do it again,” she promised softly, still not sure if this whole territorial attitude of his was good or not.

  “Thank you.” And then he kissed her—as if he couldn’t wait one more second to connect with her lips.

  She went under immediately, just as she had the night before, but when she tried to get close, he pulled back.

  “Don’t, love. I came by to see if you wanted to spend the day with me, not to seduce you in your living room.” He looked down at her precariously wrapped towel, his gaze glittering with unmistakable desire. “Though it’s a bloody tempting prospect.”

  “I’m glad.”

  He closed his eyes, as if the sight of her was too much for his self-control. “If you don’t get some clothes on immediately, all of my good intentions are going to disappear.”

  “Maybe I don’t want you to be governed by good intentions.” The kiss they’d shared last night had been incredible. She wanted more.

  At some point, he was going to realize she was not his type and move on. Was it wrong to want to experience all the passion he had to offer before that happened?

  She’d been practical and cautious her whole life, and that had gotten her exactly nowhere in the relationship department. One thing she knew, this man wanted her, not some other woman and not her sister.

  That meant their connection had more going for it than any of the others she’d had in her life.

  His jaw tightened, as if he was trying to gather inner strength. When he opened his eyes, they were hard with resolve. “We’re going to the San Diego Museum of Art.”

  “This is the last week of their special El Greco exhibit. I’ve been wanting to see it.”

  “I know.”

  Whoosh—the air rushed from her lungs as shock reverberated through her.

  It was unbelievable that a man so incredible would go to such lengths to please her. Every bit as overwhelming was the reality that she wanted to stay home and continue their kiss more than she wanted to go to the exhibition. She’d never been this physically stunned by a man’s nearness.

  “We don’t have to go anywhere for me to enjoy being with you,” she admitted.

  He smiled, that Cary Grant charm on display again. “I am delighted to hear that.”

  “But you still want to go?” she guessed.

  “Yes. I want to see if your expression is the same looking at one of your favorite painter’s masterpieces as it is when you look out over the ocean from the front window of your shop. I want to enjoy your company in the car and at the exhibit. I’m hoping you will give your whole day to me.”

  He’d watched her watching the ocean from her bookshop? Wow. “Um . . . I can’t think of anything I would enjoy more.”

  He smiled, and then looked down at her body encased in the towel and his eyes burned with something besides a desire to go to the museum.

  She blushed for no reason she could discern. “I guess I’d better get dressed.”

  He took a deep breath and turned away as if she, Tabitha Payton, was so irresistible, to look at her one second longer would be to take her. “That would be a good idea, yes.”

  Calder breathed a sigh of relief when Tabby left the room to get dressed. He’d bedded women with a lot more sophistication, definitely women with more confidence in their innate sexual appeal, but not one of them had made him feel like a panting, hormone-driven teenager—not even when he’d been one.

  He didn’t know what was so different about the sexy little bookworm, but he was bloody well going to figure it out.

  Chapter Four

  The El Greco exhibition was everything Tabby had hoped it would be. Unlike other companions she’d dragged along to art museums, Calder seemed perfectly content to let her sit and contemplate whenever a painting struck her in a special way. He didn’t hurry her, didn’t talk incessantly, and yet she felt his presence as deeply as she felt the spirit of the artist reaching out to her.

  She’d never been so aware of another person while indulging her love of art. Usually, even chatterboxes like her sister could melt into the background like ghosts that made noise, but couldn’t impinge on her consciousness.

  Not Calder. He remained a solid, tantalizing presence throughout their tour of the museum.

  It was only as he led her from the building, though, that she realized he had his arm curved proprietarily around her waist and had done every time they walked anywhere.

  “Would you like to stop for an early dinner before we head back?”

  “I can’t believe you let me stay in the museum so long.”

  “I enjoyed watching you as much as I thought I would.”

  She tilted her head sideways to see his face. “You’re a strange man, Calder.”

  “No. Merely an intrigued one.”

  She shook her head, but didn’t demur when he pulled her body closer to his. “Dinner sounds great.”

  “Good. There’s a gallery showing we can attend afterward if you are not tired of looking at paintings.”

  “I never get tired of it, but I’m surprised you’re not climbing the walls at the prospect of more stopping and staring.” Which was what her mom had labeled her tendency to become engrossed in a visual image. It didn’t only happen at museums; she reacted the same way to a creative window display when she was out shopping.

  “The artist has a hint of the master in his style, but his work is definitely no copycat.”

  “You mean El Greco’s?”

  “Yes.”

  She sighed in bliss at the thought. Maybe she would be able to buy one of the paintings. The walls of her home were still bare for the most part because of her pickiness regarding the type of artwork she wanted to hang.

  But after a dinner where it was all she could do not to leap across the table and plant her lips in close contact with Calder’s—did the man have a clue how irresistible he was?—she discovered the artist Calder thought she would like was already selling way out of her price range.

  She sighed over several gorgeous paintings, but one stopped her and held her in its thrall for so long, Calder finally asked if she was all right. Similar to El Greco’s Laocoon, the painting was not easy to interpret, but it stirred so much latent emotion and pricked at her view of her own sexuality to such an extent that she reached out to touch it.

  Only Calder’s gentle hold on her wrist stopped her from the major faux pas. She smiled at him with gratitude, even as her heart was caught by the image of him beside the painting. Both were doing serious damage to her ability to control her physical impulses.

  “If you don’t stop looking at me like that, I’m going to kiss you.”

  The hushed voices of other visitors to the gallery faded to a whisper against her consciousness. “I wouldn’t stop you.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not sure I could stop at a kiss.”

  “Oh . . .”

  He quickly led her from the gallery. When they reached his car, he put her inside, his face set, his body vibrating a message of sexual hunger even she couldn’t mis
take. He drove with quick, jerky movements until they reached an overlook and then he parked the car.

  He turned to her. “Come here, Tabby.”

  “You couldn’t wait until we got home?” she teased, her own voice betraying how much she wanted this.

  “If I had, I would end up making love to you and I’m not ready for that step yet.”

  She stared at him in shock. “You aren’t ready? I thought it was the woman who was supposed to want to wait.” And her body was clamoring for what she knew his would provide.

  Pleasure. Acceptance. A sense of closeness she craved. Even if it was temporary, it would be good.

  “Once you take me into your body, Tabby, you’ll be mine.” He sounded so serious, as if his sexy charm was just a front for the deep and somewhat primitive man under the surface. “You have to be absolutely sure I’m what you want before we take that step.”

  “You’re so serious. You make it sound like making love would be a permanent, irrevocable decision for long-term commitment.” Which was how she had always seen it—until now, when she’d decided to take what she could get and live with the consequences later.

  He was saying those consequences were different than the ones her heart told her were waiting on the other side of sharing her body with him.

  “That is precisely what I mean.”

  The idea that he shared her solemn, but atypical, view of intimacy made her dizzy. It also confused her. “You’re not a virgin.”

  He frowned, an unreadable expression in his dark eyes. “No. I am not.”

  “So, you couldn’t have always felt that way.”

  “I have never before felt this way.”

  “You mean, this isn’t a general principle?” That made a lot more sense in some ways and was totally beyond her comprehension in others.

  “No . . . it is a Tabitha Payton principle.”

  What in the world was she supposed to say to that? He couldn’t be serious and yet his tone of voice said he was—deadly so.

  But he didn’t expect her to say anything. Didn’t so much as give her the chance.

  He kissed her instead, and from the first contact, she knew just how easy it would be to make love with this man.

  He tasted like he had the night before, but now she recognized the flavor. He tasted like he belonged to her. She didn’t care how ludicrous the thought was, she couldn’t dismiss it. They connected on a level not governed by what made sense. It was too elemental for that.