Husband in Training Read online

  "Hey. If I ever want some, I'll bring it over myself."

  She let out another odd laugh, a slightly frantic one this time. "You don't even like mayonnaise."

  "So we don't have a problem, do we?"

  She made no reply, only stared at him.

  He couldn't stand that stare. He took the two steps that brought him to her side. She let out a small gasp and fell back a fraction. He knew then for certain that she wanted him, too.

  He knew it all. That she was fighting it. But that she would give in to it, if only he could manage to keep from handing her another reason to send him away.

  The urge came on him again, very powerfully this time, to haul her against him and lower his mouth to hers.

  But he sensed it was just a little too soon for that. So he grabbed the ketchup from its space in the door, took her slim hand and wrapped her fingers around the neck of the bottle.

  She stared at him, stricken. Those shoulders of hers, which were wide for a woman, slumped just a little. His hand still covered hers. It felt soft and so good, warm over the cold neck of the bottle. He didn't want to let go.

  But he did let go. He turned and opened the meat drawer, took out the turkey, then bent and opened one of the two lower drawers. A half head of lettuce and a lone tomato waited there. He scooped them up, nudged the door shut and put everything on the counter next to the sink.

  She had watched the whole process, clutching the ketchup bottle, her lips pressed together as if any second she might burst into tears.

  He knew what she was waiting for. He knew her that well. She expected him to say, What's wrong? Or, Look, do you want me to go?

  But damned if he would play the role of understanding friend for her today. He'd played that role for four long years, done a bang-up job of it, too. Even enjoyed it. Felt right about it. Felt good.

  But not today. No, thanks.

  "Do you want me to make my own sandwich?" he asked quietly.

  She seemed to shake herself, and forced a smile. "No. Of course not. I'll do it."

  "Great." He turned and left the kitchen without glancing back, giving her a moment to pull herself together, to make up a few lies to tell herself, about how nothing was going on here, about how Nick was her friend.

  There was a smoke alarm and a 9-volt battery sitting on the table. He hooked the battery up and tucked it inside the alarm. Then he looked through the kitchen doorway. Jen had her back to him, busy making sandwiches. Her shoulders seemed a little straighter, he thought. She turned to reach for a knife. He caught a glimpse of her profile. Her mouth looked soft, her jaw relaxed.

  Good.

  "You want me to put this thing back on the wall?" He held up the alarm.

  She looked over her shoulder. "Oh. Did you get the battery in?" He turned it around, so that she could see it. "That's great. It goes in the hall, over the guest bedroom door."

  "Gotcha." He pressed the tester button. The thing gave a long, piercing beep. "Works fine."

  "Good. Thanks." She turned back to the sandwiches.

  She already had a stepladder set up in the hall. He climbed up the three steps and slid the device onto the mounting plate, stuck in the anchoring pin, then got down and folded up the ladder and put it in the hall closet, where he knew she always kept it.

  When he returned to the dining room, she was putting down place mats and napkins. "Want milk?" she asked, sending him a bright smile.

  "I'll get it." He went into the kitchen, washed his hands and got down the glasses. "How 'bout you?"

  "Milk's fine," she told him.

  So he poured the milk, thinking how well he knew her. How well he knew all the little things, like where she kept the milk glasses and the stepladder. He could go around her house blindfolded and still be able to find just about anything he needed.

  He liked that. To really know the woman he wanted. Know the big, difficult things, like she still carried a torch for the husband she'd lost. And to know so many little things, too.

  Always before, the women he'd wanted had started out as total strangers to him. In fact, the more exotic and different a woman was, the more attraction she seemed to have for him.

  Now, with Jen, the thrill seemed to be, at least partly, in her familiarity. There seemed to be such a potential for … intimacy in that. That she knew him so well. That he knew her. That they'd been through so much together.

  Intimacy. It was one of those words that Polly liked to throw around, one of those words he always teased her about—because deep down, he wanted some of that, some intimacy. He wanted a woman he could really talk to. A woman who really knew him. A woman he really knew.

  "Ready?" Jen was standing at his side, holding a plate in each hand.

  "You bet."

  Nick put the milk back in the fridge and picked up the two full glasses. He followed Jen to the table. They sat down together, ate their sandwiches and drank their milk.

  As they ate, Jen talked about her job and he talked about his. They laughed together some more, about Polly and the boy-girl party she insisted was just no big deal.

  The whole time, Nick kept thinking that he probably ought to tell Jen about Sasha—if not specifically what had happened at the Nine-Seventeen Club, at least the basic fact that he'd had a change of heart about her. He also wanted to ask about the man who'd walked Jen to her door the night before.

  But if he asked about that man, he'd have to explain how he'd seen him—that he'd been lurking down the street, hiding in the shadows. It wouldn't sound so good.

  In fact, he felt almost certain that if he brought up what he'd seen, the two of them would end up arguing again—and Jen would have her excuse to send him away.

  He had the same feeling of certainty when it came to mentioning the truth about Sasha. Jenny might not get angry with him over that. But as soon as he told her, she'd start looking for reasons that he ought to leave.

  Well, he didn't want to leave. He wanted his chance to get what he'd just realized he was after.

  He wanted some time to make Jen admit she now saw him as more than a friend.

  But he had to go easy. He had to take the day kind of slow, keep it light, keep it harmless. At least for the next few hours.

  Jenny felt warm all over. Light as air. Giddy as a schoolgirl.

  The day just seemed brighter, somehow, now that Nick was here. Maybe it was a little dangerous—to her peace of mind, if nothing else—to let herself be alone with him this way when she still had all these thoroughly inappropriate feelings for him. But it was just so good to see him. And it was also good to know that the incident of Thursday night no longer hung like a dark cloud over their friendship, that he wanted to forget about it every bit as much as she did.

  Of course, she really did have to watch herself. Her emotions were just a little bit unstable today. Somehow, the simple act of Nick's pressing a ketchup bottle into her hand had nearly undone her. She had to keep herself from overreacting in that way again.

  Nick was her friend. And until this silly crush she had on him finally faded, she would just have to get used to keeping rein on her emotions when he was around. Either that, or avoid him all the time.

  And avoidance was not something you did to a friend.

  When they'd finished their sandwiches, they carried their plates and glasses back to the sink and put them into the dishwasher.

  Then Nick asked, "Okay, what other projects besides that smoke alarm have you been putting off asking me to handle?"

  So she went ahead and showed him the light fixture over the hall bathroom's sink that had to be completely dismantled before the darn bulb could be changed. He took it apart in two minutes flat. She handed him the bulb and he put it all back together. Then there was the stove burner that had stopped working. That took an hour, but he fixed it for her. And the leak in the faucet in her own bathroom. For that, he found a spare washer in the jumbled pile of nuts and bolts out in Andrew's junk drawer in the garage.

  By the time he finis
hed playing handyman, it was almost five. She told him regretfully that she really had to head over to Raley's and get the week's grocery shopping done.

  He put on one of his pitiful looks. "Hey, don't I get dinner? For a smoke alarm, a light fixture, a leaky faucet and a bad burner, I think I ought to get a free meal, at least."

  She tried to be firm. "I gave you lunch."

  "I want more than lunch."

  "I gathered. But you've had a lot of free meals around here lately."

  "All those dinners don't count."

  "Oh, really? Why not?"

  "Because I said they don't."

  She shook her head and sighed in exasperation, but he only went on looking at her as if he'd be crushed if she told him no.

  "Come on, Jen. Please."

  What could she say?

  Before she could open her mouth to give in, he came up with another suggestion. "I've got it. Why don't I cook you dinner for a change? And don't look at me like that. I'll have you know I make a mean veal piccata. We'll go on over to Raley's, and I'll get what I need while you buy your own groceries. We'll come back here, you can unload your stuff, we'll pick up the fuzz ball—and go to my place."

  He looked thoroughly pleased with himself.

  Hmm, she thought. To have him cook, at his place. A definite change of pace. And it did sound like fun. Maybe too much fun.

  "Look," he said. "It would be good for both of us. I'm free for the evening, and Polly's at Amelia's. You might as well get out of the house. What harm can it do?"

  What harm? she thought, a little shiver of anticipation slinking naughtily down her spine.

  Oh, she was just a silly fool. Nick had no idea of her secret crush. He was in love with that Sasha woman and only thought of Jenny as a friend. It wasn't as if she had to worry about him trying to make a pass at her or anything.

  Again, the incident with the ketchup bottle flitted through her mind. The way he'd so deliberately taken her hand and put the ketchup in it. The strange light in his eyes right then.

  The fact that she had been upset, and over something just a little bit ridiculous: that Andrew had loved mayonnaise and now she had none in her house. And that Nick adored ketchup and what would happen if she lost Nick, too? Would she stop buying ketchup? Would she open the refrigerator door and find neither mayonnaise nor ketchup waiting there?

  All right, it had been a stupid thing to want to cry over. But she had felt like crying. And she'd waited for Nick to ask her what was wrong, which he normally would have done.

  But he hadn't. He hadn't asked her.

  Why hadn't he asked her?

  It was just totally unlike him, not to mutter a soft, "Hey," not to pull her close and rub her back and—

  Oh, it was all way too confusing. She was making mountains out of dust specks.

  They were both a little lonely. And he wanted to spend a pleasant evening with a friend. He had it right. There really couldn't be any harm to it.

  "So, what do you say?" he asked.

  She gave him a bright smile. "I say yes."

  * * *

  Chapter 12

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  They ended up cooking together in Nick's huge gourmet kitchen while Daisy batted a stuffed catnip mouse around on the gleaming marble floor. Nick handled the veal and the garlic bread. Jenny took care of the linguine and the tossed green salad. They'd bought two bottles of Soave to go with the food, though Nick had insisted that if she wanted Chenin Blanc, she should have Chenin Blanc. They didn't have to have Italian wine to go with their Italian meal.

  "Soave is fine," she'd told him and reached for a second bottle—then put it back on the shelf without laying it in the cart. "I suppose we really don't need two."

  "The hell we don't." He grabbed that second bottle and set it in the cart.

  So they had one bottle of wine with the meal—and another that they carried into the living room afterward. Jenny shucked off her shoes and sat on the sofa. Nick lit the fire—a very simple process, he just turned a knob. And he put on some music: Celine Dion.

  When that gorgeous, lush voice filled every corner of the giant room, he turned and looked at her. "Polly's suggestion, remember?"

  She sipped her Soave and suppressed a smile. "Mmm-hmm."

  "Supposed to impress the women."

  "Do I look impressed?"

  "No. You look like you're trying not to laugh, if you want to know the truth."

  She sipped some more and glanced at the one-handed clock built into the slate wall above the fire. It was after nine. She probably ought to ask Nick to take her home.

  And she would. Soon. But not right yet. They'd shared such a lovely afternoon and evening. She just didn't want it to end.

  She teased, "Well, maybe you should play something that's a little more you. After all, I really don't need impressing, anyway."

  He pretended to look crestfallen. "You don't?"

  "You know I don't." She said that quickly, thinking that what they were doing felt very much like flirting.

  But, no. It wasn't. It was just … fooling around. A little harmless teasing, that was all.

  He said, "But you were impressed, weren't you, with the veal?"

  "You think I had two helpings to be polite?"

  "It was great, wasn't it?"

  "Yes. In fact, from now on I'm not going to feel the least bit sorry for you when you're hanging around my house at dinnertime. Now I know it's all an act, that you can cook a terrific meal all by yourself."

  "Only veal," he protested. "And you made the salad and fixed the pasta."

  "You could have done it all."

  "Damn. You're on to me."

  They shared a smile. Jenny thought that it was a lovely moment, with the fire dancing in the fireplace and Daisy curled up on a chair nearby.

  Maybe too lovely a moment…

  He said, "So. Nix on the Celine Dion?"

  She nodded. "It's beautiful, but how about some Rolling Stones or something?"

  He shook his head. "Not on a full stomach. Not at our age."

  "The Rolling Stones are a lot older than we are."

  "Jen. Listen to me. No Rolling Stones. Not tonight."

  She almost asked, Why not tonight? But she didn't. It seemed kind of a dangerous question, for some silly reason.

  She set her glass down and padded over in her stocking feet to join him at the CD rack. They spent several minutes debating the options and finally, between them, chose some easy listening and a little bit of country and even some soft rock. Nick put the CDs in a cartridge and music filled the room again.

  They sat, together this time, on the long black leather sofa. Nick picked up the wine bottle from the big black-lacquer coffee table in front of them. He filled his own glass, then raised the bottle toward her. "More?"

  She probably should have said, No thanks, I ought to get on home. But she didn't say it. After all, hadn't she just helped him choose the music? It seemed only right that she stay and listen a while.

  She nodded and held out her glass. He leaned a little closer to her, preparing to pour.

  The scent of him came to her. Yes. She did know his scent. A scent for which she had no words. It was just his scent. Nick's. Real and immediate to her—just as Andrew's scent had been lost somewhere, had become only words now.

  But Nick's scent.

  It was a scent that she had known for years without ever acknowledging, even to herself, that she knew it. A scent that had at first meant adversary, and then friend.

  And now…

  She hesitated, not sure of what word she sought, the word that meant his scent now aroused her, reminded her poignantly that she was a woman and he was a man.

  What was the word for that scent that had no words: lover?

  Denial rose up again.

  No. Nick was not her lover. How dangerous for her to even let herself think such a word.

  The wine tumbled out of the bottle and into her glass, slightly golden, thin and pure.

&
nbsp; "That's enough," she said.

  Nick tilted the bottle up, stopping the flow. One tiny drop quivered on the rim, then fell at last, disappearing instantly, creating hardly a ripple.

  Jenny looked up to find Nick watching her, the bottle still poised.

  She thought, I'm leaving now. I'm going to tell him it's time for me to go home.

  But she didn't tell him. She said nothing.

  Nick set the wine bottle down.

  Somehow, though she knew that she ought to look away, she didn't. Couldn't. His dark eyes mesmerized her. Looking into them made her whole body melt and burn. Such a lovely feeling.

  A feeling lost to her for too many years now. The feeling of melting. Of heat and hollowing out, awakened by a man's eyes.

  He kept on looking at her. He would not look away. His eyes kept working on her, sending heat and yearning pulsing all through her.

  He lifted a hand. She didn't move, only stayed with him, where she wanted to be. With his eyes that wouldn't let go of her, his eyes that drew on her, making her breasts feel hard and hungry for caresses, the nipples turning to tight, sensitive buds. Making that tugging, blooming sensation low in her belly. That waiting, anticipatory feeling—the longing of a woman for the touch of a certain man.

  He took her glass. She hadn't even sipped from it. Took it and set it down, somewhere near his glass and the nearly empty bottle of wine. She didn't know where he set it exactly, because she couldn't look there.

  She couldn't look anywhere. But into Nick's eyes. He touched her face, cupping her chin in his big, slightly rough hand. She could smell lemon, from the slices he had cut to cook with the veal. Sharp and clean, that lemon smell.

  Lemon. And the scent of him, for which there were no words.

  Somewhere far away, the music they had chosen together played on. But the music seemed unreal, like the big room with its expanse of marble floor. Like the sleeping kitten on the black chair. Like the one-handed clock on the wall that had warned her it was time to go home.

  Jenny sighed, and a small shudder went through her. Nick felt that shudder. He had to feel it, since his hand still cupped her chin. He had to see it with those dark, demanding eyes.