Days Like This (32 page)

“Try those panties on, and I’ll
show you.”

She leaned forward, gave him a
long, slow kiss.  Carefully disengaged and slithered down his body until her
feet hit the floor.  While he watched with hungry eyes, she bent and picked up
the dress.  Shook the wrinkles out of it and lay it across a chair.  When she looked
back at him, he was lying on one hip, elbow propped on the mattress, chin in
hand, eyes focused on her. 

Grinning like a fool.

She must have been prodded by some
internal devil she wasn’t aware of, because what she did next was so out of
character that the nice girl, the one she’d been all her life, was mildly scandalized
by her actions.  But there was a measure of wildness in him that called out to
and connected with a corresponding wildness in her that she hadn’t even known
existed until he found it buried somewhere inside her and dragged it out into
the light of day.

Standing before him in those ridiculous
heels, legs braced apart and as naked as the day she was born, she swept back
the hair from her face, wrapped both arms around her head, and began a loose,
shimmying dance.

“Lift your hair,” he said
hoarsely.  “Up over your head.”

She gathered it, twisted it, held
it atop her head.  “Like this?”

 “Keep on dancing.  Oh, yeah.  Now
just let it fall.  Oh, baby.”

“Oh, baby, what?”

“Oh, baby, you are one hot, sexy
bitch.”

She raised her eyebrows.  “Did
you just call me a bitch, MacKenzie?”

“I called you a sexy bitch, Fiore. 
Whole different ball game.”

“Good thing you clarified that,
because I was really looking forward to round two.”

“Me, too.  What about the
panties?”

She gave him a wicked grin, came
back to the bed and knelt, straddling his legs.  Crawled on hands and knees
until she reached the place where her hair fell in a dark curtain around his
face.  She lowered her head until her mouth was so close to his that their
breaths mingled and became a single entity.  

And said,  “Screw the panties.”

Illuminated by soft morning
light, she slept face down, this stranger in his bed, this woman who looked
like his wife but was almost certainly a doppelganger.  Puzzled, he buried his nose
in the dark cloud of hair and took a whiff.  She smelled like his wife.  Sweeping
aside her hair, he pressed a damp kiss to the back of her slender neck, touched
her warm skin with the tip of his tongue.  She tasted like his wife.  He
studied the way the hair grew in a soft whorl at her nape, her skin pale
beneath the dark hair because it never saw the light of day.  Last night had
been amazing.  Stupendous.  Phenomenal.  Except that none of those words came
close.  He wasn’t sure the right word had yet been invented. 

Who was this lush and lusty alien,
and what had she done with the sweet and decorous woman he’d married?  Last
night, when she’d danced for him wearing nothing but a pair of red high-heel
shoes and a smile, his heart had nearly stopped.  The woman he’d known so well for
two decades would never do that.  She was far too repressed, far too shy, to ever
flaunt her body that way. 

After all, this was the same
woman who, when they first got together, had been sleeping in a plain white
cotton nightgown that looked like something his mother would wear.  Because he
hadn’t owned a pair of pajamas since he was twelve, he’d laughed at her when
she said, “But what if the house catches fire in the middle of the night?”

“If the house catches fire in the
middle of the night, Fiore,” he’d told her, “your local volunteer firemen
seeing you in your birthday suit will be the least of your worries.”

That had been the end of the
cotton nightgown.

He slowly drew the bedding down
to give himself a better view of the body he knew so well he could have mapped
it in his sleep.  It was all here, just as it should be.  Every bump and dip,
every line and curve, every blemish, every scar, every tiny freckle and mole,
were all in their rightful places.  Either the doppelganger was identical in
every way, or this truly was his wife.

What the hell had happened while
he’d been away? 

He pressed another kiss to the
center of her spine, between her shoulder blades, and she made a soft sound
that might have been approval, might have been protest.  He worked his way slowly
southward, one knobby little vertebra at a time.  When he reached the base of
her spine, he paused to admire her sweet little tush before placing a kiss on
one rounded cheek.

She made the sound again.  This
time, he was pretty sure it signaled approval.  He opened his mouth and took a gentle
nibble.  Brushed his whiskers across her tender flesh.  She rolled up on one
hip, giving him access to a plethora of goodies.  He rained a trail of kisses
across her silky hip, up her groin to her navel, bestowing special attention on
her concave little belly.  Her hands, those wonderful, magical hands, tangled
themselves in his hair.  He worked his way northward, tasted first one breast
and then the other.

In a groggy voice, she said, “You
need a shave, MacKenzie.”

“Good morning to you, too.”

One slender hand trailed
fingertips down his cheek, across his shoulder, his collarbone, down the center
of his chest.  The hand settled there, fingers threaded in his chest hair, and
he abandoned his doppelganger theory.  This was definitely his wife.  In the
dim light, their eyes met, and they studied each other somberly.  “Hi,” he
said.

“Hi.”

Something had changed between
them, but the
when
and the
how
and the
why
escaped him.  Her
eyes gave nothing away, but she was sending out the weirdest vibes, and he
couldn’t decipher them.  Couldn’t figure out what was going on.  But considering
last night, this couldn’t be bad…could it?

With a single finger, she traced
the outline of his lower lip.  Leaned forward and kissed him.

It felt like relief running
through him, but again, he couldn’t be sure.  The sweet, tender kiss quickly
turned heated.  His heart racing, he moved his hand from her hip, slid it
between her thighs, and moved it northward.

And there was a soft knock on the
door.

They looked at each other, both
of them startled. 
Timing
, he thought.  It was everything.  Reluctantly,
he removed his hand.  Casey drew up the covers until they were both decent, and
said, “Come in.”

The door opened, and his daughter
stuck her head into the room.  “I’m sorry if I woke you,” she said.  “But I
made breakfast.  For all of us.”

Jesus Christ on a Popsicle
stick.  Who the hell was this kid?  What had Casey done to her while he was
gone?  He must have woke up in the Twilight Zone.

“Aw, honey, that was sweet of
you,” Casey said, and nudged him under the covers.  “Babe?  Wasn’t that sweet?”

“Yeah.  Absolutely.  Of course.” 

Another surprise.  He was really
happy to see the kid.  Her timing was abysmal, but after six weeks away, he was
surprised by how glad he was to see her.  “Hey,” his daughter greeted him.

“Hey.”

“Just give us five minutes,”
Casey said, “and we’ll be down.”

Paige eyed him speculatively,
then nodded at Casey.  “Okay,” she said.

She shut the door, and his wife
rolled away from him.  Reaching out to stop her, he said, “Who was that kid?  And
where do you think you’re going?” 

But it was too late.  She was
already out of bed, already in her robe, already pulling her hair free and
tying her belt.  “I told you she just needed the right kind of attention.  And
where do you think I’m going?  You heard her.  Breakfast is ready.”

“Just when things were getting
interesting.”

“Oh, stop sulking.  Didn’t you
get enough ‘interesting’ last night?”

“I never get enough of you.”

She moved to the closet, opened
the door, studied her options.  Took out a pair of pants and a shirt.  “I’m
quite certain the opportunity will arise again.”

He threw back the covers and
reached for his jeans, the ones he’d left on the floor last night.  Yanking
them on, he said, “Opportunity isn’t the only thing that’ll rise.” 

He watched with great interest as
she took the red lace panties from the dresser and pulled them on beneath the
robe. “You’re relentless,” she said, dropping her robe on the chair.  “Sex and
food, food and sex.  No imagination at all.”

“That’s me.  One hundred percent
cave man.”  While he watched, she pulled on her jeans and slipped into a
peach-colored silk brassiere. 

“Maybe,” she said, fiddling with
the clasp, “I should start putting saltpeter in your food.”

“Hah!  That’s a myth.  Doesn’t
really work.  Besides, it seems to me that—”  He crossed to the bureau, opened
a drawer, pulled out a clean tee shirt, and yanked it over his head.  “—last
night, you were the one who almost ripped my clothes off.”  When he looked at
his wife again, she was fully dressed, standing in front of the mirror over the
dresser, brushing her hair with brisk strokes.  “I could help you with that.”

“Not if we want to get to
breakfast anytime soon.”

“Well, then, little lady—”  He crossed
the room, drew back a hand and gave her a hard swat on the rump. “Let’s get
going.  Breakfast awaits.”

She dropped the brush, turned and
gave him the Death Stare, cold enough to freeze his manhood on the spot.  Her
eyes ablaze and her hands curled into fists, she said, “You are in
so
much
trouble, MacKenzie.” 

She advanced on him and he
grinned, raised both hands, palms outward, and began backing away.  “
Mea
culpa
.  I plead the Fifth!  I don’t know what came over me.”

“I’ll be happy to give you a
preview of what’s about to come over you.”

Still backing away, he said, “I
couldn’t resist.  You’re just so damn—”  His back hit the wall.  He was
trapped, with nowhere left to go.  “—adorable.” 

She drew back an arm, and he
prepared to be annihilated.  The woman had a mean right hook.  Then something
changed in her eyes.  With a sly smile, she relaxed the fist.  Moved closer.  Instead
of hitting him, she slipped a hand between his thighs.  Turned it, slid it
northward, cupped and stroked him. 

And he nearly swallowed his
tongue.

Her smile was evil.  “Easy,” she
said, removing her hand and shaking her head.  “Men.  You’re all just so damn
easy.”

Pole-axed, he watched her walk to
the door.  Who the hell
was
this woman?  His glance fell on the red
shoes, carelessly discarded on the floor by the bed, then returned to her
retreating back.  She disappeared down the hall.  A moment later, he heard the
bathroom door shut.

He cast another suspicious glance
at the shoes.  Took in a hard, shuddering breath.  And said weakly, “Well. Damn.”

***

The scrambled eggs weren’t bad,
as long as he didn’t mind the occasional crunchy piece of egg shell mixed in.  “Great
breakfast, kiddo,” he said, setting his knife and fork on his empty plate. 
Paige shrugged, but if he wasn’t totally misinterpreting her expression, she
seemed pleased.

“We’ve been cooking together,”
Casey said.  “Paige is a fast learner.”

“I can see that.”

His daughter rolled her eyes a
little, but accepted the praise.  “So,” he said, “I hear you made a visit to
Casa MacKenzie.  How’d that go?”

“I like your mother,” the kid
said.  “She’s nice.”

“She is nice, my mother.  As long
as you don’t cross her.  Soft as a marshmallow on the outside.  A steel rod in
place of a spine on the inside.  A lot like this one here.”  He nodded in
Casey’s direction.  Paige glanced at her stepmother, shrugged again, but a soft
smile played at the corners of her mouth.  “Do me a favor,” he said.

Paige glanced up, saw him looking
at her.  “Me?”

“You.  See those two guitar cases
in the corner?  Go get the black one.”

She glanced at him, at Casey,
then shrugged.  Got up from her chair, lifted the case, returned to the table. 
“Sit,” he said.  “Open it.  Check it out.”

Without speaking, she undid the
latches, flipped open the lid, and stared at the polished black acoustic guitar
inside.  “Nice,” she said.

“Try it out.  Listen to that rich
timbre.”

His daughter carefully removed
the guitar from its case, propped it on her lap, wrapped her fingers around the
neck and played a couple of chords.  Glanced at him, not even bothering to try
to hide the delight on her face.  “
Sweet
,” she said.

“Is that or is that not the
richest sound you ever heard?  That’s how you recognize a good guitar.”

“I can’t believe the difference between
this and my old guitar.  They’re not even in the same ballpark.”

“Exactly.  And it’s a lot easier
to play, with the strings so close to the fretboard.”

Paige played a couple more
chords, did a little fingering.  Then, with a sigh of regret, she lay the
guitar back in its velvet nest.  “Not so fast,” he said.

She glanced up, her face awash in
puzzlement. “What?”

“Do you like it?”

“Of course I like it.  It’s friggin’
amazing.”

“That’s a good thing, then, because
it’s yours.”

Her face changed, grew wary,
suspicious.  Not quite the response he’d hoped for.  Something tightened inside
his chest, temporarily constricting his breathing. 
Damn it.
  Kids
learned what they were taught.  So who had taught her not to trust? 

“Mine,” she said carefully. 
“Why?”

“Because,” he said.  “Because
you’re my kid, and I’m proud of your playing.  Because I saw it in this dusty
little pawn shop in Memphis, and it had your name written all over it.  Because
serious musicians graduate from fifty-dollar department-store guitars to the
real thing.  And last but not least, because I like to give presents.”