picked out her scent among the dozen or more in the room. He’d apparently startled her: her mouth was open, as if she’d been about to say something. Instead, she lifted a hand to her lips and dissolved into laughter.
He thought she might be just this side of drunk, but when she cleared her throat and looked directly at him again, her deep brown eyes were clear and sparkling, even if her face was flushed.
“That’s not fair,” she said, obviously tamping down a new round of giggles. “I was trying to come up with some wickedly clever line, and you screwed me up.” She sucked in a deep breath. To quell nerves? “So. How’re you doing?”
Loaded question. He took another sip of wine, considering how to answer, even more seriously considering why things that had been comatose not ten seconds before were stirring now. That voice of hers probably had something to do with it—low, sensuous, and far too rich to come out of a body so slender that she probably didn’t dare venture outside on blustery days. He smiled. He couldn’t help it, any more than he ever could help the braided feelings of terror and attraction Nancy Shapiro’s presence sparked, had always done from the first time they met, right before he’d starting dating Elizabeth. Her natural ebullience, the way her emotions crackled around her like summer lightning, at once exhilarated and appalled him. Wasn’t that he didn’t like her. He did. More than she knew, more than he’d ever before admitted to himself. But she was too lively, too witty, too bright, too…much. This was a woman, he suspected, who threw things during a fight, who slammed doors and burst into copious tears and got in a person’s face, demanding immediate and honest answers.
Living with someone like Nancy would be an invitation to a coronary. He’d always preferred cool, together blondes—soft-spoken, genteel women who never raised their voices. That both his ex-wives and any number of also-rans, including the woman in whose house he now sat, were cool, soft-spoken blondes…well, perhaps he really wasn’t in the mood to ponder such things too hard this evening.
Any more than he was in the mood to ponder why Nancy Shapiro had such an unsettling effect on him. Why he wanted to see if he could span that deceptively fragile waist with his hands, if she kissed as irrepressibly as she laughed. Which made no sense, since Rod didn’t want to touch or kiss Nancy or get close enough to do either anytime before the next millennium. He wanted peace, not passion. To be left alone to nurse the wounds left from this last marital debacle in a nice, cozy cocoon of self-pity, maybe to have a chance to salvage what was left of his tattered relationship with his children, who had spent the holidays skiing in Aspen with their mother and her latest boyfriend.
So why was he here?
And why was Nancy frowning down at him like that?
He realized her hands, tipped with long, glossy nails nearly the same burgundy as that bit of a dress she wore, were planted on her hips. Or where her hips would be, if she had any. Humor sizzled in those molasses eyes as she said, “Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s rude to stare at people?”
Despite his rotten mood, he grinned again, surprised to realize his cheeks actually ached a bit from the effort. The firelight sent streaks of molten amber through her curls; his fingers itched even as need warmed his belly.
“The way you have your hair fixed tonight,” he heard himself say, “it’s very flattering. Really shows off your eyes. Did you know—” he hurtled into the compliment with the recklessness of a kid on a sled after a foot-high snowfall “—in this light, they’re nearly black?” He shook his head. “Extraordinary.”
Extraordinary was right. What the hell was that all about? Something trembled, deep inside him, as he took a sip of the same glass of wine he’d been nursing for nearly an hour, watched those eyes grow huge with astonishment. Her hand went to her mouth again, and she turned away for a moment. He couldn’t tell in the firelight, but he thought she might be blushing. Then she laughed again, softly this time, before twisting around to plop down beside him.
No! She wasn’t supposed to…
He wasn’t supposed to let her….
So why’d you give her the compliment, lamebrain?
Good question.
Now her perfume tendrilled through his bloodstream, the sweet-spicy scent threatening to dissolve what little common sense he had left. And somehow, they fell into a natural, easy conversation, about nothing, really. Elizabeth and Guy, the weather, the party, if he knew the couple standing next to Maureen Louden, Elizabeth’s mother. Nancy was one of those touchy types, her hand often landing on his sleeve as they talked. Not that he minded. She got him to laugh, several times. And he enjoyed the sound of her laughter, too.
He was enjoying her.
She bent over to adjust the ankle strap on one of her black silk high heels; her back was flawlessly clear underneath a pair of crisscrossed spaghetti straps, her fragile-looking spine smooth as a string of pearls. Her boisterous hair teased her shoulders, teased his libido even more.
How many times in the past had he pretended not to notice her interest? How many times had he told himself he wasn’t interested? Yet, here he was, lonely and horny and in no position even to think what he was thinking about this lovely, lively woman who was all wrong for him, even as her very presence threatened to cause a major testosterone explosion. Hell, even if she had been his type, it was probably a pretty safe bet she was looking for a husband. Whereas he was definitely not in the market for a wife. At this point, he doubted he could even deal with a mistress. Not that he’d ever had one before, but…
Oh, never mind. This train of thought led nowhere he had any desire to visit, thank-you-very-much.
“Aunt Nancy? Where’s Mama?”
From nowhere, a pajama-clad urchin with dusty-blond hair appeared in front of them. Guy’s youngest, he figured. A brief pang of bittersweet longing to have his children back as babies, to see if he could do better this time, mingled with a profound sense of relief at not having to. Hannah was sixteen, Schuyler thirteen going on forty. Rod hadn’t been much better at fathering than husbanding. One day, maybe he’d figure out where he’d gone wrong.
But not tonight. Tonight he had about all he could handle convincing himself he didn’t want to take Nancy Shapiro to bed, to bury his face in all that hair, to seek, in those delicate, graceful arms, a few hours’ surcease from being a major screwup.
“Hey, sweetie,” Nancy crooned to the child, who scrambled up into her lap, pushing up the already short dress to danger level. Unconcerned, she propped her feet on the edge of the coffee table, allowing Rod a ringside view of her legs—thin but surprisingly shapely, and sexy as hell in sheer black stockings that glittered whenever she moved. When he tore his eyes away from her gams, however, he noticed the expression on her face as she cuddled the little boy.
He tore his eyes away from that much more quickly.
“Mama’s in the kitchen, honey,” he heard her say, and the I-want-one-of-these tremor in her voice was unmistakable. “You want me to get her?”
“C’n you take me to pee?” he said. “The bafroom’s all dark.”
There went the laugh. “I think we can handle that.”
He felt them get up, watched as Nancy carried the child out of the room. For a skinny woman, she had the cutest fanny he’d ever seen.
A few minutes later, she returned, sans child, but didn’t sit. Instead, she stood in front of him,
