Blame It on Paris (20 page)

“Are you free this Saturday morning?”

“Yes. But—”

“Pick you up at ten. No questions.”

“But—”

“Bring sunscreen. Sunglasses. A hat, if you have one. Otherwise, just think ultracasual. No-worry clothes.”

“But—”

“Plan on the whole day, all right? Because I can't give you an exact time when we'll be back. Ten,” he repeated, and then clicked off.

 

T
HE INSTANT
Will pulled into the driveway on Saturday morning, Kelly flew out the door. She was dressed as instructed—a blue-and-white shirt and capris, a white hoodie for the cool of the morning. Her hair was freshly washed and held back with sunglasses and her tote carried the required sunscreen.

She had no idea where they were going and didn't care. When she climbed into the unfamiliar BMW convertible—which was satin-red and cuter than sin—she immediately pounced on Will about what mattered. “How come we're doing this?”

He looked her over with lecherous eyes. “Because I thought of a splendiferous way to spend a Saturday. Specifically with you.”

“But you're mad at me. Remember?” She swallowed him up in a look. She hadn't seen him in a whole week, a stretch of time that seemed longer than months. Heaven knew what he'd been doing. His nose was sunburned; his right knee was skinned; his chin had a brush of blond whiskers and he looked edible—edible, jumpable and lovable—in frayed cutoffs and a Cambridge tee.

“I was never mad at you,” he corrected. Two turns later, they were on the freeway headed north. “I was slightly aggravated at having dinner with my father. Being with my father, anytime, under any circumstance, is a guaranteed way of yanking my chain.”

“But it was me you were aggravated with, not your dad. Because you thought I wasn't taking your side.” At last she had a chance to get that out in the open. “But I
am
on your side, Will. Totally. Completely. It's just that being in your corner doesn't mean I always have to agree with you, does it?”

He shot her a quick look, then reached over faster than quicksilver and traced a fingertip down her ribs.

She convulsed. “Is that your way of avoiding a serious discussion, you varmint? Tickling me?”

“Yeah. My sisters taught me that trick. Besides—there are rules for today. It's a playday. We've both had too much family stress. No serious discussion allowed. This is a day for forgetting all the heavy stuff and refilling the energy wells.”

“You think that's possible, huh?” she murmured. She wished it were but didn't believe it. Hiding from problems never got them solved. Taking a break made her feel she was running away and that a lightning bolt of guilt was going to slash out of the sky any second and catch up with her.

Still. The wind tugged at her hair; the warm sun beat down, and Will flipped to a radio station playing such god-awful, twangy, corny country songs that she had to either groan or hum along. He kept sending her lazy grins. She kept trying to hold on to a careful, wary, worried mood, but as the miles sped by, serious thoughts ebbed away.

It didn't take her long to figure out their destination, since 31 North led straight into Michigan, and in less than an hour, Will turned off at St. Joseph—an old-fashioned town built on top of a bluff overlooking Lake Michigan.

Kelly knew the town, had known the area for years, because the beach was fabulous and the shopping was fun. The long street was packed with little shops, lots of art, interesting jewelry, cafés, a blend of things to do and see.

Will bypassed the shopping section—no surprise. That left pretty much nothing to do but the beach.

“I know the temperature's warm out,” she said tactfully, “but in case you've forgotten what the lake is like at this time of year, it's colder than ice. Maybe you could handle swimming, but I really—”

“We're not going to swim. We're going to sail.”

“Sail,” she repeated warmly, trying to treat the demented man with kindness. “The way I heard it, it's awfully tricky to sail without a boat.”

He grinned at her teasing. “Luckily we happen to have a boat. A thirty-foot Sabre, in fact. Waiting for us.”

She stared at him in confusion, until he turned into a marina called Harbor Isle. The place was more crowded than a zoo, with massive yachts and sailboats everywhere, a fancy crane operation going on where big boats were being hoisted into the water, and people wearing everything from painting clothes to jewels to anything in between. Will parked in front of a long, sleek white baby with a blue sail cover. The side of the boat read
Soul Asset.

“It's not mine. It's my sister's. Or to be more accurate my dad's—he's the one who paid the bill—but, regardless, it's ours for the day. Tell me now if you tend to get seasick. I've got some—”

“No, not a problem.”

“Good. And I've been sailing all my life, so don't start worrying I'm going to tip us over or strand us…that is, unless you want to be stranded. I stocked her up yesterday, so there's nothing you have to do but slip off your shoes and climb aboard. There are extra jackets below if it gets cold. And if you want to be busy, I'll give you things to do, but the boat's set up for single handing so you can sit back and put your feet up and relax.”

She wanted to say something—when had she ever been speechless? This was such a surprise. She'd expected an extra-nice lunch or dinner, maybe. A picnic. She never dreamed about spending a day doing anything like this.

Will zipped around the boat like an acrobat, untying lines, unbuttoning the sail cover, starting the engine. He unlocked the companionway to the cabin below, brought up thick white cushions and ice water, and then they were off.

“We're actually on the river here, and we have to go through two old-fashioned drawbridges before we reach the lake—and they're a pain.” As they neared the first one, Will picked up an air horn, let out an earsplitting long toot and then a short one. “That's the signal, asking the gatekeeper to open the bridge for us. As soon as we're out of the river channel, we can cut the motor and put up the sails.”

It was Greek to her. She'd been on boats before, even a few sailboats—South Bend was so close to the lake that kids just naturally had a chance to enjoy it, growing up. But she'd never been on a beauty of a boat like this.

They passed a red-and-white lighthouse, piers and a white beach dotted with sun worshippers. Then civilization faded away, leaving nothing but an open lake with silver-hemmed waves. Will flipped a cleat and suddenly, a huge white sail zoomed up the mast. He turned the winch, cranking her all the way until the sail touched sky, then repeated the same procedure with a second billowing sail.

Last, he cut the engine, and suddenly there was silence.

Magic.

She didn't know what else to call it.

People and city sights and sounds disappeared. The wind cupped the sails and they flew across the water, the sun blessing her cheeks, the air brushing her hair like sensuous fingers.

“You want to take the helm?” Will asked her.

“Are you nuts? Do you want me to sink this gorgeous boat?”

He laughed. “You can't sink her. Promise. I'll be right behind you.”

He was. Right behind her. Perched on the fanny of the boat while she stood at the wheel. There were dials—for water depth and wind and speed and Lord knew what else. But Kelly was conscious only of him, of his sun-warmed body just behind her, shirtless, his brown chest nestling against her back. The boat skimmed the water in a silent dance and unbidden, unexpectedly, she felt a burst of emotion. A feeling like freedom. Joyful. Easy.

“Did you know,” she asked, “that I couldn't have needed a day like this more?”

“We both did,” he said, and then snapped his fingers. “I forgot something. Just a second.”

He peeled down the steps to the cabin, emerged seconds later with two Notre Dame sun visors. He perched one on her head, one on his. Then readjusted hers, to fit her smaller head, making her laugh—which made her accidentally turn the wheel too hard, which made the boat suddenly dip and the sails wildly flutter.

“Whoa there, lady.”

But her heart didn't want to whoa. Her pulse was racing, chasing, as exuberantly as the wind. He smoothed sunscreen down her arms and neck when she had the helm, and she did the same for him when he took his turn at the wheel.

It was foreplay, that touching, the smell of Coppertone and water, the ripple of his skin under her hands, the responsiveness and heat of her skin under his. He knew. The way he looked at her. With invitation. With wanting.

With waiting.

They sailed the shoreline until around lunch. Will didn't stop the boat or throw out an anchor, but he did something with the sails he called “heaving to.” Once the boat stopped, he gave orders. She was to close her eyes. Sit there. Not move. “And for damn sure, don't think.”

“Hey.” She put plenty of “insulted” into her voice, but he just laughed.

She closed her eyes, as ordered, heard him rummaging around, up and down the steps, humming an old rock song under his breath. She was aware when he finally stopped moving, because there was suddenly complete quiet—except for the sound of a distant gull crying in the sky and Will's shadow cooling her hot cheeks. And then something else. A sensation of something fluttery-light and soft and fragrant raining on her head.

Her eyes popped open. Everywhere, on her shoulders, her arms, the deck, were rose petals. Bowls of them, buckets of them. She wanted to laugh, and did, but something squeezed her heart—the gesture was so frivolous, so romantic. So Paris.

Suddenly he was watching her in a way she couldn't back away from. The way the wind ruffled his hair, the rush of heat in his eyes, the electric tension between them—every detail invoked a flush of memories of Paris. It was as if they were there again, in his bed, waking up to warm rumpled sheets and a patch of lazy sunlight and street vendors below, hawking flowers to lovers.

Lovers like they'd been.

Lovers…the way she still felt with him, for him.

“Lunch,” he murmured. “French style. Baguettes. Cheese. Fruit. Wine. There's ice water, as well, because I figured we'd be thirsty.”

She tried to eat. She was certainly hungry enough. Will wolfed down lunch easily, but then he stopped, poured the wine, hunkered down next to her on the long white cushion.

That was the last time she could put a bite in her mouth.

“You know what occurred to me?” he asked lazily.

Everything before really had been foreplay, she thought. The looks. The smile. The sun and sea and sexy white sails. The hopelessly corny rose petals and French picnic and wine.

All that was nothing, though, compared with the next seductive trick he pulled.

He lifted the forefinger of his right hand, hooked it with the forefinger of her left hand.

Was that the act of a low-down sneaky creep, or what?

That was all. Absolutely no body parts touched except for their two fingers. And then his lazy, quiet voice asked, “You know what I was thinking about?”

Torturing women? “What?” she asked in a reasonably normal voice.

“I was thinking that this was how it was in Paris with you. As if there were just the two of us. The rest of the world didn't mean a damn.” He added carefully, “Have you noticed that I haven't made a pass?”

What could she say?
No? Why haven't you jumped me?

“It's because you asked me not to, Kel. Because I've tried to honor what you asked of me.” He lifted their hooked fingers, waggled them together playfully. “You felt there was too much confusion and trouble in your life, that you needed to work some things out before tangling your life up with sex.”

“Yes.” Why had she said that? When had she been that sane? That stupid? The tip of his forefinger circled hers, such an innocuous, lightweight caress that there was no explaining the thrumming low in her belly.

“And I wanted you separated from that guy before I made any more moves. But you did that. And now I think we're both ready for a new plan. I want you to come back to Paris with me.”

“Paris,” she repeated.

“Just listen.” Still he caressed her finger, slowly, gently, as if there were nothing in the universe hurrying either of them, stressing either of them, worrying either of them. “There's nothing holding you here. You've come home to nothing but trouble. You love your mom, I know that, but she could visit us in Paris anytime she wanted. I'll pay. I've got money, Kel. My grandfather left me a good inheritance. Anytime you wanted family to visit—or you wanted to come back to South Bend—we could swing it, absolutely no sweat.”

She was getting dizzy from his eloquent finger caress. From his soft, slow, tender voice.

“You could work there. Do whatever you love to do there, no different than here. We could find a place of our own, if you don't like mine. Are you hearing me? We could do this. Go back to Paris. Be in Paris together. Forever, if that's what you wanted. There's nothing we can't do together, Kel. Nothing we can't try.”