Between Duty and Desire (6 page)

She was so charming with her vulnerability. He
wanted to pull her in his arms and tell her she would be okay, but he knew he shouldn’t. He crammed his fists into his pockets.

“Thanks.”

“No problem,” he said and downed the rest of his lemonade. “Well, I should probably head back to my cottage.”

“Do you have to?”

His heart stuttered at the expression in her eyes. “Why?”

She shrugged. “Sounds wussy, but I don’t want to be alone yet tonight.”

“Okay,” he said, mentally girding himself for more sexual temptation—and deprivation. “What do you want to do?”

“Cards, Scrabble, Monopoly.”

“Monopoly,” he said decisively. If he couldn’t have sex, he would dominate the real estate world.

An hour and a half later, she shook her head at him. “Whew! You’re ruthless and you own everything,” she complained. “I can’t land on anything where I don’t have to pay you rent. And I’m nearly broke. How’d you get to be so good?”

“This was how I got kisses when I was thirteen,” he said, rolling the dice. “I played with a couple of neighbor girls. They always ended up owing me and I allowed them to pay some of their rent in trade.”

“You dirty dog,” she said. “You started young. Well, I’m not trading my kisses to pay your obscene rent.”

“I hadn’t asked,” he said lightly, even though he felt himself go tight inside.

“That’s right. You haven’t,” she said, meeting his gaze with a hint of curiosity in her eyes. That curiosity did dangerous things to his gut. She bit her lip. “I’m not at all your type.”

He nodded and glanced away, focusing on moving his token. “Yep.”

“You prefer uncommitted, undemanding, sexually experienced women with healthy appetites,” she continued.

“You hit the nail on the head,” he said, telling himself it was the truth.
Why did it feel like a lie?

“Do you dance?”

He blinked and looked at her. “What?”

Her smile was a little self-conscious. “Do you dance?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Why?”

“Rob didn’t.”

“Really? I didn’t know that, but then I never asked him to dance.”

She laughed and then the silence stretched between them. His heart picked up the pace. He tried to ignore it, tried to ignore the expectant tension between them, tried not to think about holding her in his arms for a few moments. No kissing, no making love, just a dance. She hadn’t gotten that from Rob. Maybe he wouldn’t mind. The words were out before he could stop them.

“Wanna dance?”

Marine Lingo Translation
Cinderella Liberty: An authorized absence that
expires at midnight.

H
e took her small hand in his and pulled her into his arms. She slid her other hand over his shoulder then behind his back as he drew her closer. She fit against him as if she were made for his body.
Made for his soul,
something inside him whispered. Brock stopped himself.
What crazy thoughts.
He inhaled and caught a draft of the sweet, citrus scent of her hair. He felt the silky strands brush his chin.

Her breasts glanced his rib cage and his abdomen tightened. Her thighs slid against his and his heart pounded.

He tried to swallow the knot of need forming in
his throat. The song playing on the radio would have provided a perfect accompaniment to a long French kiss or an afternoon spent in bed. It was slow and sexy, not the kind of music for twirling.

He cleared his throat, needing to break the tension, the magic. “Who is this artist? I don’t think I’ve heard him before.”

“I can tell you’ve been out of the country,” she said with soft amusement in her voice. “John Mayer. He’s very popular.”

“Do you like him?”

He felt her nod. “Yes. His voice is expressive, so are his lyrics.”

It would be so easy to rub his lips over her forehead, Brock thought. So easy. She might not even notice. He gave in to the temptation and a surge of illicit pleasure raced through him. He swallowed an oath at the strength of it. If kissing her forehead did this to him, then what would kissing her other places do to him?

Brock closed his eyes and tried to close his mind to all the possibilities. She just probably needed a little human contact. A brotherly hug. He shouldn’t think about nudging her chin upward and tasting her mouth, or sliding his hand down to her bottom to draw her against the part of him that grew harder with each breath she took.

He heard her murmur something and opened his eyes. “What’d you say?”

Feeling her pull her head back slightly, he looked
down at her. A strand of her hair clung to his chin. Pulling it free, she smiled and lifted her fingers to his chin. “Five o’clock shadow. Rob must have been jealous of you. I think he had about ten whiskers on his face and three hairs on his chest.”

Fighting a twinge of self-consciousness, Brock rubbed his jaw. “I’ve always had to shave often or—”

“Or you get scrubby.”

“Yeah,” he said and noticed that her gaze fell to his chest. It was a little thing, but it grabbed at his gut. She was aware of him as a man, perhaps just because of his beard, but the awareness was there. He could see it and feel it. All of his instincts pushed him to take this further, to lower his mouth to hers and rub his hands over every inch of her body.

His conscience jabbed at him. He would be taking unfair advantage. Unfair advantage of Rob’s wife. Of Rob.

Clenching his jaw, he pulled back. “Song’s over,” he muttered.

This would have been so much easier if Callie was a guy. He could pat her on the back, watch some baseball games on television with her, go to a bar, help her pick up somebody so she could get laid. After that, if she were a guy, she’d be as good as new.

Guys were simpler than women. Sports, beer and a good lay could solve a lot of problems. Women, however, were much more complicated. And Callie was no exception. During his training, he’d been
taught that in order to defeat the enemy, he needed to understand the way the enemy thought. Callie wasn’t the enemy, but he sure as hell didn’t think the same way she did. He racked his brain for a way to pull her out of her slump and even resorted to something he’d never done before—he called the one woman he could trust for advice.

“Hey, Mom, how’s everything?”

“Brock! I wondered where you’d gone. I called the rehab center and no one knew. I was worried sick—”

Brock winced. He’d been in such a rush to leave he’d forgotten to tell her. “Sorry, Mom. I’d had enough. I had to get out of there. I decided I needed a change of environment before I moved to Atlanta.”

“So where are you?”

“Down in South Carolina. It’s a little place on the beach.”

“Oh, the ocean,” his mother said longingly. “That sounds nice.”

“Yeah, you should get Sam to take you sometime. Listen, I was thinking about you the other day.”

“That’s sweet of you to say, dear. You know I think of you all the time. Sam and I miss you terribly. We were hoping you would come see us when you left the rehab center.”

Brock felt a pinch of discomfort. “I was thinking about trying to get up to see you after I get settled in Atlanta. I’ll have a lot to do. But I was thinking about when Dad died. I was wondering how you kept it all
together. I remember catching you crying a few times, but you didn’t ever fall apart.”

Silence followed. “Well, that was because of you, Brock. If it had been left up to me, I would have curled into a ball and never left the house. I was lost without your father. But I still had my precious son and I needed to be strong for you.”

Brock’s heart tightened at the memory. He remembered that period of time just after his father’s death. He’d been confused and lost, but his mother had seemed so strong. He was surprised to learn how hard it had been for her. “You did a good job, Mom. I didn’t know.”

She sighed. “Everyone needs a reason to get up in the morning. You were mine,” she said, and he heard the smile in her voice. “When someone close to you dies, it’s a struggle to go on, but you just have to. You have to get up, get dressed and go out in the world. Sometimes it’s little things that help. Smelling flowers, holding a baby, striking up a conversation with someone you don’t know. And for women, shopping can be a panacea, even if we don’t buy anything. I remember going shopping twice a week after your father died. I didn’t usually buy anything, but it got me out among people. And then I joined a garden club and got a job. And when I met Sam, I thought he could be a good father for you.”

She didn’t sound too sure with that last reference to his stepfather. “He was in a tough position,” Brock conceded.

“And you’re both bullheaded,” his mother said.

“True. Maybe that’s why you love us both so much,” he said.

She laughed with pleasure and the sound pleased him. “You’ve always been a rascal. Are you taking care of yourself? Eating good food? Taking your vitamins and getting your rest?”

“Yes, Mom,” he said, stifling a groan.

“Don’t you
yes, Mom
me,” she fussed. “We nearly lost you, so I’m allowed to worry.”

“You didn’t lose me. I’m still ornery as ever.”

“So when will you come to see me?”

“Soon. Two or three months.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Thanks, Mom.”

“Anytime, dear. Take care of yourself.”

“You, too,” he said and hung up the phone.

He thought back to the conversation and made a mental list of what his mother had said.
Smelling flowers, joining clubs, getting a job, shopping.
He wrinkled his nose in distaste at the last activity, and Callie already had a job. He would try the others first.

Brock didn’t know much about flowers, so he got two of each, along with a couple of big pots, some bags of dirt and gardening tools. After he hauled everything onto Callie’s front porch, he rang the doorbell.

She answered more quickly than ever, and she actually looked as if she’d been awake for a while. His
heart lifted at the sight of her. Her hair was pulled back in some kind of messy bun. He wished she would wear it down. Her legs looked lean and shapely despite her loose shorts.

Glancing at the flowers for a long moment, she finally met his gaze. “Just a guess, but I’m thinking Rob didn’t tell you that I have a black thumb.”

“He told me you don’t have a black thumb. You just get distracted and forget to water plants.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, they’re not like pets. They don’t remind you to give them water—until it’s too late.”

“I have a solution for that,” he said.

“What?” she asked skeptically.

“I’ll tell you after we plant the flowers.”

She gave a put-upon sigh, but joined him on the porch. “Is this part of my recovery?”

“Yes.” He gave her a trowel and opened one of the bags of dirt.

“Where’d you get this idea?”

“My mother.” He dumped some dirt into each of the large pots.

She looked at him with her eyebrows raised. “Your mother? I didn’t know you ever talked with your mother.”

Brock resisted the urge to growl. “What is it with women? All or nothing. I call my mother every now and then. I even wrote her when I was overseas and when I was in the physical rehabilitation center. I called her last night and—”

“Bet she was surprised,” Callie interjected.

Brock shot her a quelling glance that didn’t appear to dent her challenging, impish expression.

“Betcha she was surprised,” she said, shaking her trowel at him. “Betcha she didn’t even know where you were calling her from.”

“And your point is?”

She wiggled the trowel in a circle as if she were trying to come up with something, but couldn’t. “Nothing really, except you don’t call her as often as she’d like. Did you talk about me?”

“No. I just asked her what she did to keep going when my dad died.”

The silence that stretched between them had a sweet quality to it. He glanced up and saw sympathy in her gaze. He usually hated the very idea of someone feeling sympathy for him, especially after all his time in the hospital, but it felt different coming from Callie. He would have to figure that out later.

“That must’ve been a rough time for both of you,” she said.

He nodded. “It was. I don’t think I realized how tough it was for her until lately.”

“So how did she get through? Gardening?” Callie asked with a smile on her face. She shifted one of the flowers into the larger pot.

“That and some other things,” he said.

“Do I have these other things to look forward to?” she asked warily.

“Some. Not all,” he said, thinking that the way she looked at him with her hair partly covering one eye was sexy as all get-out.

“What won’t I be doing?”

He felt a ripple of discomfort. “Well, you don’t have a kid, so…”

She met his gaze again, realization glinting through her eyes. “Yeah, I can see that. I bet you were her biggest motivation for getting up in the morning.”

“I guess that’s what mothers are supposed to say.”

She smiled. “I never have understood why guys hate having their moms fuss over them a little.”

“Because it’s never a little. It starts out small and innocent with her fixing my favorite pie, then it progresses to grilling me about my health, fussing over me eating vegetables, then before you know it, she’s trying to pick out a wife for me and begging for grandchildren.”

“And by then, you’re choking on your cherry pie,” she said, chuckling. “How are we going to arrange these flowers?”

He shrugged. “You’re the artist.”

“With a black thumb,” she added.

“Okay, these are annuals,” he said, pointing to the flowers next to him. “The ones next to you are perennials. So some of them will come back again next year and some of them won’t.”

“Kinda like you,” she murmured.

He could have let it pass, but he was curious. He set down his trowel. “How are they like me?”

“The annuals are pretty for a season, but they won’t be back next year.”

“Are you saying I’m pretty?” he teased.

“I’m saying you’re temporary,” she emphasized, and he couldn’t tell if she was saying it more for him or for herself. “Then again,” she said, instantly lightening the mood with a rueful smile. “They may
all
be temporary due to my black thumb.”

He shook his head. “This time is gonna be different. The annuals will last all season and the perennials will be back next year.”

If he couldn’t be here with her next spring, then at least the damn flowers would, he thought.
Now that was insane. Purely insane. Why did he give a rip if these flowers bloomed next year?
And he sure didn’t want to be here next year wanting another man’s woman and not having her.

Insisting she wasn’t a joiner, Callie didn’t bite at the club suggestion, even after he read a list compiled by the local newspaper. He subscribed to the local paper for her, figuring it would be worth the cost if she read the comics and just one of them made her smile.

When he knocked on her door one afternoon, she answered with a pink nose, pink cheeks and tearful eyes. His gut clenched. “What’s wrong?”

“This isn’t a good day,” she said in a wobbly voice. “I don’t think I’m going to be very good company. You’d probably better go back to your place.”

“I’m not going back to my place. What is it?”

She bit her lip. “It’s his birthday,” she whispered. “It’s Rob’s birthday. I’ve spent nearly every birthday with him since he was ten.”

His chest tightened at the pain he saw in her eyes. She looked like a lost child. Unable to stop himself, he pulled her into his arms and she sobbed against him. She sniffled and snorted and wept. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I told you that you should go back—”

“Hush,” he said, holding her tighter. “This is why I’m here.”

She inhaled deeply and let it out in a jagged, uneven breath.

He stroked her hair the same way he would comfort a child, all the while aware—terribly aware—that she was a woman. “Does this mean we have to eat the animal crackers in his honor?”

She gave a weak chuckle and looked up at him. “No. He didn’t usually have animal crackers on his birthday. Just the regular birthday cake, yellow cake, white frosting, candles.” She rubbed the tears from her cheeks. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. What do you want to do this evening?”

“I don’t know. Maybe look at some photographs. I’d toast him, but I don’t think I have any alcohol.”

“I can take care of that,” he offered.