Читать книгу Just Kiss Me - Kathleen O'Reilly, Kathleen O'Reilly - Страница 8

IT HAD ONLY BEEN ONE DAY. Amanda traced the white petals of the orchid with her finger. Orchids of all things. She glanced about her office, for the first time hating the stark white modern décor that she herself had picked out two years ago. White art deco chairs, an uncluttered glass desk and unadorned soft white walls. In New York City, everything was a fashionable black or a muted gray, and she had always liked white. It was clean, pure and now unfortunately, her office was more like a hospital. Cold. Like the orchids.

Mentally she gathered her courage, lifted the receiver and dialed Avery’s pager. She followed the computerized instructions, entered her phone number and made notes on how she would redecorate her office.

A few minutes later, Grace, the latest temp, walked in, wearing her new Statue of Liberty sunglasses. Secretarial temps were usually ghosts that flitted around the office, not wanting to be noticed at all. Grace was different. She was a perpetual tourist trapped in the body of a temporary secretary—proof that God had a sense of humor. “Dr. Barrington for you, Amanda.” She lifted her shades. “Should I make an excuse?”

“No, thanks, Grace.”

“Whatever you say, boss.” Grace left Amanda alone with the blinking phone line.

Amanda stared at the flashing light and then picked up the phone. Saying “no” to Avery had never come easy to her; perhaps secretly he had sensed that. Whatever the reason, Amanda still hated discussing it. One day. Hopefully soon.

“Avery?”

“Yes? You paged?”

“Why did you send me orchids?”

“Did Joe send you orchids as well?”

Amanda sighed heavily into the mouthpiece, making sure he heard it. “No.”

“Well, there. Your beauty calls for a rarer flower. Something long and delicate. Wasn’t it Robert Frost who said, ‘Sometimes I wander out of beaten ways, half looking for the orchid Calypso.”’

“Avery, that’s very pretty, but I told you, I love Joe.” Saying the words gave her a wicked thrill. Okay, it was lust, not love. But the lust was beginning to feel rather overpowering.

As usual, Avery ignored her. “I’ve been offered two tickets to The Producers for tonight.”

“I’ve already got a date.”

“With Joe?”

“Yes.”

“Where’s he taking you? I hope someplace that epitomizes a marvelous dining adventure. Have you tried that new French bistro on the Upper East Side? Très Appétissant.”

“We’re staying in tonight.” She maintained a meaningful silence, hoping he’d think that she and Joe would be having wild, passionate sex. She hoped that they would be having wild, passionate sex. Probably not yet, though. It was too soon. But when?

Avery coughed.

Enough about sex. “We’re renting a movie. Popcorn. Butter.”

“How bourgeois. I’m sure if Joe could afford better, he’d take you there.”

“Don’t be a snob, Avery. Everyone is an adult here.”

“I’m sorry, Amanda. I’ve never been a graceful loser. Not that I think the war is over, not by any stretch of the imagination. I have not yet begun to fight.”

That’s what she was afraid of. “Avery?”

“Yes?”

“I have a deposition to go to. I’ll talk to you later. No more flowers, hmmm?”

She hung up before he could reply and immediately dialed the airport. “Joe Barrington, please.”

In the background, she heard the thunder of the planes, pounding tools and voices yelling, with a particular New York flavor. La Guardia. Laughing, she took notes, learning a few new fun words. Finally, Joe picked up. “Barrington.”

“Joe? It’s Amanda.”

“What’s up?”

“I told Avery we were watching a movie tonight.”

“Yeah? What’s that got to do with me?”

She gritted her teeth. “I think we need to watch a movie at your apartment.”

“No offense, Amanda, but I’ve got a date tonight.”

A date? “You’re still dating?”

“Yeah.”

“Is this serious?” Nervously, she twisted the barrel of her ballpoint pen back and forth.

“Define serious.”

“How long have you been seeing this person?”

“I met her two nights ago.”

“Joe! What do you think your brother will do when he finds out? He’ll think you’re cheating on me!”

“He won’t know.”

“Joe!” She picked up her pen, jotted a few more choice words on her notepad and then crossed them out again. “You want this to work, right?”

A power-drill whirred in the background. “It’s not going to work.”

“It won’t work unless you have a positive attitude and a celibate existence.”

“You didn’t tell me this was a requirement last night.”

She didn’t reply.

“You’re killing me, here.”

“Joe, doing without sex will not kill you.”

“But it can make a man awfully grumpy.” Thankfully, he acquiesced soon enough. “All right. I suppose Monique will understand.”

Monique? Trust Joe to pick up girls named Monique. “For the duration, Joe. It’s going to take several months for this to work.”

“Several months? Are you serious?” A pause and then his voice dropped. “Look, I can keep my private life private. Avery will never know.”

“Joe.”

“I’m not a monk. I’m not even a monk wanna-be. I don’t do monk.”

“Joe. He sent me orchids today. Orchids! With poetry.”

To further her fury, he laughed. “All right, all right. You win. You don’t know what you’re asking.”

She knew exactly what she was asking. Hopefully, they could all muddle through this and live happily ever after. Right now she just wanted to focus on one day at a time, and getting Joe in her bed. “It’s for a good cause.” After all, she didn’t want Joe to turn into a grumpy monk.

“Right,” he said, sarcasm oozing over the line.

“See you tonight, Joe. I’ll bring the movie.”

He sighed like he was already missing Monique. “Yeah. See you then.”

THAT EVENING, she brought an indie-flick and wore her shortest skirt. If he noticed anything at all, he hid it well. Joe’s apartment was exactly as she’d pictured it. There was one overstuffed couch, a leather chair and a coffee table that had never seen a coaster in its carefree existence. No Pottery Barn here. She thought of her own pristine white loft, and sank happily onto the faded cushions. This is what she wanted to understand. How to have a messy life and not feel guilty about it.

“Want something to drink?” He had a beer in one hand, and his shirt hung unbuttoned, as if he had just shrugged into it. She declined the drink and instead handed him the videocassette, secretly studying the chest that he exposed so casually. He was strong, she knew that. He had to be to work on the planes. All muscle, but not bulky. No, long and lean. Bottled energy. When Joe walked, he exuded that energy. She lusted after that energy.

He looked at the tape, a sultry film noir that she thought would be perfect. The sexiest movie she could find that wasn’t porn. “You’re not going to make celibacy easy, are you?”

She brushed her hair back, and smiled. “Just for a few months. Surely it won’t kill you.” If she had her way, it’d only be a few weeks. Maybe days. She looked at her watch. Maybe hours.

Joe sank into the big leather chair across from her. Chair and owner immediately became one. She laughed aloud.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “So tell me what you find amusing?”

“I like your furniture.”

“Not what you’re used to, is it?” There was a defensive note in his voice that she had heard when he was near Avery. He’d never used it around her before now. It hurt her to hear it now, with her.

“Joe, I was being honest. I do like this.” She waved her hand around the room. “All of it.” A painting hung over the coach and she twisted around for a better look. A naked lady, tastefully done, she’d give him that, but still a nude. She pointed at the pouty raven-haired siren in the picture. “Except for that.”

Joe shrugged. “All the blondes hate her. It’s art.”

“Well, yes, but if you had other pictures…” She stopped and looked around the room. There were other pictures. Some landscapes, some portraits and one airplane. “You like art.”

“Sue me—” he stopped and held up one hand. “It’s only a figure of speech. I never dated a lawyer before. Jeez, I need to watch my mouth.”

Still shocked that he liked art, she wasn’t even mildly annoyed, only curious. “You don’t like lawyers, do you?”

“If I say ‘yes,’ you’ll take it personally, right?”

She nodded.

He thought for a minute, his fingers silently drumming on the chair arm. “Well, you’re okay, but you have to admit, most of the personal injury barracudas are annoying as all hell in the commercials.”

She agreed with that, but just like everything else, there were good lawyers and there were bad lawyers. She wanted to be one of the good ones. Heck, just two years out of law school and she was one of the good ones. “I’m one of the good guys. Truth, justice and corporate responsibility.”

“Yeah, but does the job ever get old?”

Sometimes she worried she worked too much. That she was missing something in her life, but her work was important. “Joe, people get hurt every day from things that aren’t supposed to hurt them. It’s my job to see that not only are people compensated, but more importantly, that corporations change their behavior and that nobody gets hurt anymore.”

He smiled. She liked his smile. It was never a grin, but a mere lifting of his lips at the corners. Very Joe. “You’re going to be on 60 Minutes someday, aren’t you?”

“I’d like to.” She stared at the airplane on the wall. It was an old picture. “It’d be nice to be known for making a mark.”

Joe went silent, and too late Amanda realized that she might have said the wrong thing. She changed the subject. “So I’m thinking Avery will show up at nine. What do you think?”

Joe looked silently relieved. “If he shows up, it won’t be until after E.R. It’ll take him twenty minutes to get over here, so 11:20.”

“Eleven-twenty? Avery’s too conscious of appearances to drop in that late, especially unannounced.”

His eyes were full of confidence. “Eleven-twenty. Trust me. You can really set your clock by Avery. I figured that you’d know that by now.”

“I’ve tried to live my life as Avery-free as possible.”

“Sorry about that. I’ve no choice in the matter. But he’s okay when you get to know him.”

Amanda traced the soft weave of the couch. “It’s really not awful. It’s not like Avery is a vile parasite. It’s just—” she struggled to explain something she didn’t understand herself “—I have to be me. Out of everybody, you should understand that best.”

He studied her over his bottle. “Who are you?”

Tough question. “I don’t know the answer to that yet, but I’m not happy with who I am now.”

He took a sip and swallowed. “Thought you’d be over the moon. Making the big bucks, an upstanding young doctor who wants to marry you, you’re smart and beautiful. What’s not to be happy about?”

“How did you learn to be happy with who you are?”

He did grin this time. “You mean, me, the poor airplane mechanic?”

Oh, right. “You’re not poor.”

“Maybe not poor, but I don’t make half the money you do, honey.” He didn’t sound like he was joking.

“Really?” She shook her head, not letting him divert her. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“Why do you think I know the answer?” he shot back.

“Because you do. Aren’t you happy with who you are?”

Joe shrugged. “Most of the time.”

Most. Surprise number two. She leaned forward, wanting to pry, and he shook his head and picked up the tape. “So, are we really supposed to watch this?”

The easy contentment was back, that quiet peace that made her want to see if his heart was still beating, if his blood could still run so hot. “Unless there’s something else you want to do?” She looked at him, trying a sultry, provocative stare, but ended up blushing furiously. Darn. She did not blush well.

Joe watched her for a minute, and tension snapped in the air. Finally he stood and slipped the tape in the VCR. The clock on his VCR was not blinking. She was impressed.

“You sure you don’t want something to drink? Water, beer, cola.”

Amanda started to refuse, but then changed her mind. “Beer.” After all, the purpose of this exercise was to let her hair down a bit. She put a hand to the clip at the back of her head and pulled it free, trying to get eliminate that little bump you get with clip-hair.

Again Joe watched her. Finally he nodded. “I’ll get your beer.”

While he was gone, she kicked off her sandals, and curled up on the couch. Okay, this was neat. When she was a kid and lived in Queens, she could lie down on the couch. But that all changed after her Dad’s big promotion. Her parents now lived in an old renovated farmhouse in Vermont with antiques. No lying down on those things.

A few minutes later he appeared and placed the beer on the coffee table in front of her, and then looked rather determinedly at the television.

“Could you dim the lights a bit?” she asked.

He jerked his head in her direction, and she shrugged apologetically. “You know, in case Avery shows up.”

He stood, flipped the light switch, the room turning a deep shade of indigo, the last bit of sun long gone. Joe sat down, looked more determined than ever.

Progress. She crossed her legs at the ankles.

The movie was good. A great mystery, and some very steamy love scenes. She wasn’t brave enough to stare meaningfully at Joe during the intimate moments, but she did peek out of the corner of her eye. His jaw looked pretty tight, and there was a bead of sweat on his upper lip.

She shifted a little on the couch, and crossed her legs a little tighter.

When the intercom buzzed, they both jumped. Joe shut off the TV quickly and the room went dark.

Amanda looked at the clock. Eleven-twenty? Already? Gee, time flew when you were watching smut, um, art. “That’s Avery, isn’t it?”

“Probably,” Joe answered.

Avery. Show time. Amanda looked at Joe, shirt untucked, chest untouched, and she glanced down at her own still-ironed look. Even the couch, with all its comfortableness, couldn’t lose the starch.

Great. “We don’t look like we’ve been doing anything.”

Joe cut his eyes towards her. “Usually women just get this look. Some sort of aura.”

She wanted to laugh, but darn it, she needed to think. This was important to get right. “No. Joe, remember this is supposed to be torrid. You need to look like you can’t stand one minute without touching me. Remember,” she stressed the words, “Avery needs to think he doesn’t have a chance.”

The doorbell rang and Joe lowered his voice to a furious whisper. “This was your idea. What are we supposed to do? Get a little down and dirty on the carpet and just let Avery walk in?”

She looked at the carpet and got a nice visual and decided right then and there that someday indeed she would indeed get down and dirty on the carpet with him.

The doorbell rang, longer this time.

“I’m coming. Just a minute,” Joe yelled, still standing several feet away from her, looking completely untorrid.

Amanda took a step toward him. “Look, if this were a real date, what would Avery expect to find?” She wanted to know exactly what was the current fashion for flagrante delicto.

His smile was slow, but smoky. “Babe, if this were real, you’d be lucky to have your socks.”

She drowned in the absolute hedonistic waters of his eyes and forgot all about her socks. Socks. Heavens. She looked down at her bare feet. She didn’t have on socks, did she? She shook her head free of lust. Not now. “Okay, here, let me button my shirt up wrong.”

She attacked her buttons, Avery now knocking politely but firmly at the door. Well, he could just wait. Very efficiently, she undid the tiny pearl buttons, popping them free. She pulled the stiff cotton material free of her skirt and made the rather huge mistake of looking at Joe.

Her fingers froze. His eyes were leveled on the black satin bra she wore underneath her shirt. Okay, her chest was a little small, but she liked to think of herself as pert.

The way Joe was looking right now, as if she were edible, she was beginning to like pert. Okay, she was beginning to love pert, but she really did need to move her fingers. Unfortunately, every bit of her was paralyzed.

Joe found his tongue, his voice a little hoarse. “You need to button up some of those buttons. I don’t think Avery needs to see you looking like that.”

She almost reminded him that that was exactly the point, but decided now was not the time to argue. She fumbled for a bit, but the button-loops had mysteriously shrunk two sizes too small, and her hands had grown much more clumsy.

With a muttered curse, he brushed her hands aside and began the task himself.

“Joe, you’re buttoning them up right!”

His hands froze. Right on top of her breasts. Oh.

He swore again. One of those fun New Jersey expressions, and then began muttering to himself. “Joe, concentrate. Joe, your brother is at the door.” His thumb brushed against her skin.

She jumped. “Joe, you’re talking to yourself.”

The doorbell rang, longer this time.

Joe looked up, eyes bright with lust. “Don’t talk to me right now. I need to just button these damn buttons. What do you have, a million of these tiny things? I told you I don’t handle celibacy well.”

“How long has it been?” she asked, trying to distract both of them.

“A week.”

She groaned.

He gritted his teeth and his finger brushed against her nipple.

She gasped.

Her nipples grew even perkier, clearly visible under the black silk. Joe’s breathing turned shallow.

Oh.

Not knowing what else to do, she apologized. “I’m sorry.”

He stopped messing with her buttons and focused on her face. A flush ran under his skin, and she noticed where the shadow of whiskers clung to his jaw. Her fingers lifted, wanting to touch.

“For what?”

She started to explain that she was apologizing for her nipples and his breathing problem, but realized this was not what a sultry, provocative seductress would do. That is, here she stood, her breasts in his hand, well, almost, and surely she could think of something.

And so she kissed him.

SHE WAS TRYING to kill him. All that silky white skin. And her mouth. Now he knew exactly what that wicked mouth tasted like. Sex. Damn, but if she didn’t kiss better than the best sex he’d ever had. He pulled her down on the couch and took over, letting his tongue explore the inside of her mouth. It was like a drug in his head, and he couldn’t breathe. His hands fumbled with the clasp at the front of her bra until it broke and feverishly he touched her bare flesh. He was going to die. He had to—

“Oh, Joe,” she sighed in his ear, and he was eternally grateful that at that moment he was named Joe and not—

The doorbell rang, accompanied by loud knocking. “Amanda! Are you all right?”

Avery.

Joe lifted his head. “Avery, go away!” He stared at Amanda’s face. Fine bones, so delicate. What was she doing with him?

Rational thought returned.

Avery.

He still couldn’t look away. She looked almost shocked, her blue eyes still off somewhere about two minutes ago.

He had so needed her to be the sane one. With her body underneath him—how had that happened?—he didn’t want to be the sane one. It was physically painful to move off her. “Amanda.”

She smiled a little crookedly and sat up. “Joe.”

“Amanda, we need to fix your shirt. Avery. I’m sorry.”

The fog in her eyes cleared, her focus getting sharper. “Oh.” She looked down at the bra now hanging uselessly, then looked up at him and grinned. “Tell you what—” he watched as she pulled the scrap of silk through her sleeves like a magician “—looks better without it anyway. Don’t you think?”

Her fingers recovered nicely and she buttoned up a few strategic buttons, but now the bright blue material covered places that he had just seen, conquered.

Unable to do much else, he sat.

Amanda walked to the door, but he ran after he and caught her before she could open it. This was important. There was one question he needed answered.

“Amanda, why did you kiss me?”

“Because…” She hesitated for a long moment and looked over her fingernails. Finally she looked up at him, eyes big, wide and full of desire. “Because I wanted to.”

The doorbell rang and Joe flung it open. Mad at his brother for interrupting, mad at Amanda for starting it and mad at himself for thinking the thoughts that were running in his head. Now he’d really messed up. Now he wanted her.

He look through the open doorway, not really caring about appearances anymore. Avery stood, elegant in a polo shirt and canvas slacks, looking ready for a day on the links. Next to him, in a tight leather miniskirt, scarlet fingernails, stiletto heels and a wisp of a blouse, stood Monique, looking ready to blow.