fragrant hair, the way the part wasn’t quite straight, that she was just the right height to fit neatly under his chin, if he were to hug her.
That this feeling-like-a-human business could easily get out of hand.
After a stunned moment or two, Del angled his head to look at the shot, one of those a-thousand-photos-for-fifteen-bucks JC Penney specials. Wendy’s fourth birthday portrait, all deep brown eyes and dimples. A twinge of something like fear hobbled through his gut, as images of strapping, hormone-sodden teen males—guys just like he had been, once upon a time—popped into his head.
God, she looked so freaking much like Cyndi, although the dark eyes were definitely Farentino stock. And everytime he saw Wendy, or even a photo of her, it socked into him how long it had taken him, was still taking him, to come to grips with her mother’s death. Yeah, Cyndi had been the most bullheaded woman he’d ever known, but he’d loved her from the bottom of his heart, and her death had damn near devastated him. He and God were still on the outs about that one. In fact, he pretty much figured if he did get married again, it would be more for companionship—and, okay, sex—than for love. It wasn’t that he was saying he’d never love again, exactly, as much as he just wasn’t sure he could. Not the way he’d loved Cyndi, that was for sure.
But then, the next Mrs. Farentino—should there ever be such a creature—would be nothing like Cyndi. She’d be…
Demure. That’s it.
Did women even come in demure anymore? Or had that concept gone the way of avocado kitchen appliances?
He glanced at Galen.
Huh.
“Uh, yeah,” he finally said before she wondered if he’d fallen in a hole or something. “Wendy. She’s four and a half. All we’ve got is each other.”
Now why the hell did you say that?
He could feel Galen’s gaze dust his cheek, sweep back to the photo. “What a sweetheart.”
“She has her moments.”
Seconds passed. Del wondered if you could get drunk from just smelling someone. If letting too many hormones flood the bloodstream too fast could give you the bends.
“She has your eyes,” Galen said at last, softly, which, for some odd reason, seemed to settle things in her mind, as they decidedly unsettled things in his. Without warning, she took off, leaving Del grabbing for the carrier, then double-stepping to catch up.
He switched everything to one arm, then took her bag from her; she actually didn’t protest. “You got any other luggage?”
She shook her head, her russet hair gleaming in the overhead lights as she walked. “I’m only here for the weekend. Oh!”
She swayed again, as if being tossed on a wave. Del reached again for her elbow; she moved away. “I’m fine.”
“What you are, is full of it.”
“Not any more.” She bobbled again, but the hell with her. She didn’t want him to touch her, he wouldn’t touch her. Well, unless she listed more than twenty degrees, in which case, he was there.
“You didn’t eat before you boarded, did you?”
A herd of teenagers, all talking and laughing at the top of their lungs, swarmed past, forcing Galen to step closer to him or risk being trampled. Close enough to catch another whiff of her hair. Of her. Floral-scented pheromones. A few more hormones surged forth, like an army determined to breach the enemy’s stronghold.
The throng of kids passed, Galen reclaimed her space, and the hormones ebbed.
“No, really. I’m okay.” Except she went all wobbly again, coming damn close to passing the twenty degree mark.
His hand shot out, grabbed her elbow. “Come on,” he said, steering her toward a coffee shop. What the hell—the day was blown, anyway. As long as he was back in time to pick up Wendy, it wasn’t as if the guys couldn’t cope without him. “You need a cup of tea, something to settle your stomach—”
“Don’t tell me what I need!” She squirmed away from his touch, yet again, digging in her heels. Perplexed, Del was startled to see something almost like fear glittering in those turquoise eyes. “I told you, I’m fine.” Criminy—they were talking a lousy cup of tea. What was with this woman? “If you don’t mind, Mr…. Farentino, was it? I’d really just like to get to Cora’s.”
First he couldn’t get her to leave, now he couldn’t get her to stay. Del stared her down, ignoring—or so he told himself—the odd prickling sensation in various parts of his body when their gazes locked. “Okay, answer me one thing.” The higher of the two slender brows lifted in question. “If you’d just about upchucked all over Cora and she’d suggested getting a cup of tea, would you be giving her a fight about it?”
She looked away, and Del felt like she’d just broken an electrical connection. “I’m sorry,” she said after a moment, her words coming out on a long breath. “I know you mean well. It’s just…” She flushed, color staining her pale cheeks. “Please?”
Something slammed into him, although he couldn’t have put a name to it. Something about the way she said “Please,” as if she’d had to beg one too many times for things she shouldn’t have had to. Ten seconds ago, he’d been damn close to lusting after this woman—at least, he thought that’s what it was, since it had been so long he wasn’t all that sure he recognized the signs anymore—and now he felt like girding those errant loins of his and going to battle for her, slaying dragons or jerks or whatever had put that apprehension in her eyes.
With a nod, he shifted everything to one arm, then reached out to take her elbow; she flinched again. He lifted his free hand. “Sorry.”
There went the fear again, flickering across her features. But a smile, too. Shaky, insecure, but a smile. “You’re just one of those touchy types, aren’t you?”
“What can I tell you? I’m Italian.”
The poor little grin petered out. “Oh, that much I know,” she said softly, then hitched her purse up onto her shoulder, took a deep breath and headed down the concourse, leaving him once again to follow.
She should have taken her chances with the million other passengers and gotten a taxi. Getting in a confined space with this man was pure lunacy. Not because she was afraid he’d murder her or anything quite that dramatic, but because…
Because…
Spit it out, Volcek.
Because only once before had she been this sexually attracted to a man, and look how that had turned out.
But it made no sense. Not just the part about her blood zinging to parts of her body she’d pretty much decided would need shock treatment to be brought back to life—over a man she’d just met, no less—but because…
Trotting along behind Del through the parking garage, she told herself the flight, the stress of the past few days, had left her addle-brained.
There was no reason Del Farentino should remind her of Vinnie. None. Vinnie was suits and ties. Vinnie was never a hair
