You told her I didn’t write those letters and e-mails, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Meg played with the worn strings of the tennis racket as her eyes avoided his. “I should have …. I mean, this is crazy.”
“You can say that again.” He tried to sound nonchalant and wondered if he’d managed it. He didn’t think so. He was actually rather amused by the whole setup. Her daughter and his sister. The girls were close in age and obviously spoke the same language.
“Lindsey’s still got romantic ideas when it comes to men and marriage, but …” Meg paused and chanced a look at him. “She really stepped over the line with this stunt.”
“What did you say about our date?”
Meg’s hands returned to the tennis racket. “Not much.”
Steve hadn’t been willing to discuss the details of their evening together with Nancy, either. Nothing had surprised him more than discovering how attractive he’d found Meg Remington. It wasn’t solely a sexual attraction, although she certainly appealed to him.
Whenever he’d thought about her in the past three days, he’d remember how they’d talked nonstop over wine and dessert. He remembered how absorbed she’d been in what he was saying; at one point she’d leaned forward and then realized her dress revealed a fair bit of cleavage. Red-faced, she’d pulled back and attempted to adjust her bodice.
Steve liked the way her eyes brightened when she spoke about her bookstore and her daughter, and the way she had of holding her breath when she was excited about something, as if she’d forgotten to breathe.
“Your sister—the one who wrote the letters—is the same one who sent the flowers?” Meg asked, breaking into his thoughts.
Steve nodded. “I’d bet on it.”
Meg fiddled with the clasp of her purse and brought out a small card, which she handed him.
Steve raised his arm to attract the cocktail waitress’s attention and indicate he wanted another beer for Meg.
“I shouldn’t,” she said, reaching for a pretzel. “If I come home with beer on my breath, Lindsey will know for sure I wasn’t playing tennis.”
“According to you, she’s already figured it out.”
She slid the bowl of pretzels closer and grabbed another handful. “That’s true.”
Steve opened the card that had come with the flowers and rolled his eyes. “This is from Nancy, all right,” he muttered. “I’d never write anything this hokey.”
The waitress came with another mug of beer and Steve paid for it. “Do you want more pretzels?” he asked Meg.
“Please.” Then in a lower voice, she added, “This type of situation always makes me hungry.”
She licked the salt from her fingertips. “Has my daughter, Lindsey, been in contact with you?”
“No, but then I wouldn’t know, would I?”
Meg was holding the pretzel in front of her mouth. “Why wouldn’t you?”
“Because Lindsey would be writing to Nancy.”
Meg’s head dropped in a gesture of defeat. “You’re right. Much more of this craziness and heaven only knows what they could do to our lives.”
“We need to take control,” Steve said.
“I totally agree with you,” was her response. She took a sip of her beer and set the mug down. “I shouldn’t be drinking this on an empty stomach—it’ll go straight to my head.”
“The bar’s got great sandwiches.”
“Pretzels are fine.” Apparently she’d realized that she was holding the bowl, and she shoved it back to the center of the table. “Sorry,” she muttered.
“No problem.”
He saw her wince and recalled that she’d been limping earlier. “Is there something wrong with your foot?”
“The shoes I wore to work were too tight,” she said, speaking so quietly he had to strain to hear.
“Here,” he said, reaching under the table for her feet and setting them on his lap.
“What are you doing?” she asked in a shocked voice.
“I thought I’d rub them for you.”
“You’d do that?”
“Yes.” It didn’t seem so odd to him. The fact was, he hated to see her in pain. “Besides, we need to talk over how we’re going to handle this situation. I have a feeling that we’ll have to be in top mental form to deal with these kids.”
“You’re right.” She closed her eyes and purred like a well-fed kitten when he removed her tennis shoes and kneaded her aching feet.
“Feel better?” he asked after a couple of minutes.
She nodded, her eyes still closed. “I think you should stop,” she said, sounding completely unconvincing.
“Why?” He asked the question, but he stopped and bent down to pick up her shoes, which he’d placed on the floor.
“Thank you,” Meg said. She looked around a little self-consciously as she slipped her shoes back on and tied the laces.
Feeling somewhat embarrassed by his uncharacteristic response to her, Steve cleared his throat and picked up his beer. “Do you have any ideas?” he asked.
She stared at him as if she didn’t know what he was talking about, then straightened abruptly. “Oh, you mean for dealing with the kids. No, not really. What about you? Any suggestions?”
“Well, we’re agreed that we’ve got to stop letting them run our lives.”
“Exactly. We can’t allow them to force us into a relationship.”
He nodded. But if that was the case, he wondered, why did he experience the almost overwhelming desire to kiss her? All of a sudden, it bothered him that they were discussing strategies that would ensure the end of any contact between them.
He imagined leaning toward her, touching his lips to hers ….
There’s something wrong with this picture, Conlan, he said to himself, but he couldn’t keep from studying her—and picturing their kiss.
He’d been wrong about her face, he decided. She was beautiful, with classic features, large eyes, a full mouth. He’d trailed his finger down the curve of her cheek the first time they’d met, and now he did so a second time, mentally.
She knew what he was thinking. Steve swore she did. The pulse in her throat
