Florida Knight (25 page)

He could swear her lower lip was sticking out as she murmured, “’Cuz,” shortly followed by a furious, “
Damn it, Michael!
”

“Oh. Sorry. Was that your exit?” He pinned his eyes to the road so she couldn’t see them dance.

“Turco, I’m going to wring your neck. You’ve been bulldozing me since Day One. I’m sick of it.”

Was that a note of panic he heard? “Uh, Kate, I’m not planning to attack you.” In scrupulous fairness Michael added, a bit dolefully, “Not unless you want me to, that is.”

“You’re taking your life in your hands.”

Yes, he probably was, Michael agreed. Just not the way Kate meant. What a weird day they’d had. In spite of the near disaster, he’d enjoyed nearly every minute of it. With the evening yet to come.

When they turned into the entrance to Michael’s condo, Kate squirmed in her seat. The contrast between his life style and her own was so obvious it hurt. A series of two-story buildings were strewn over a park-like setting of lush green grass, lakes and swimming pools, all overhung with palms and towering live oaks, and landscaped with immaculate flowering shrubs and leafy green bushes. Developers didn’t do this any more, Kate thought. They couldn’t afford it. They simply crowded the buildings together, threw in a one-car parking space per unit, a single community pool, a few shrubs, and that was it. Michael was one of the lucky ones. He lived in a condominium complex where the developer had actually thought more of ambiance than how much money he was going to make.

Which didn’t keep her from feeling like two cents. She’d understood when Michael objected to how she lived, but the full force of the contrast hadn’t hit her until now. Suddenly, Kate grinned. She’d never before had the experience of feeling like the girl from the wrong side of the tracks. It was a novel concept. If only she knew what Michael was thinking. Then again, maybe his only thought was how to get her in the sack . . .

They climbed up an outside staircase to a gallery on the second floor. Michael inserted his key, pulled back the door, and motioned her inside. Kate couldn’t help letting her eyes roam in a quick inspection. It was a corner unit with impressive amounts of glass on two sides of the living room. The kitchen, to the left, was larger than most of those built thirty years ago. Not spacious, but adequate, and shining clean. Sparkling off-white appliances had replaced the awful green or yellow that cursed so many condos constructed in the seventies. The living area was far from the jumbled bachelor-look Kate had expected. Burnished black leather sofa and chairs, scattered with textured pillows in various patterns of red and white. A chrome and black glass dining table, chairs in a print that matched the colors of the sofa pillows.

“Did you do this yourself?” Kate asked, not bothering to conceal her surprise.

“You don’t like it.” Michael at his most expressionless.

“It’s gorgeous. It’s just that most men . . . well, they don’t live in designer elegance.”

“Since when is a celibate female an expert on men’s apartments?”

“Michael!” Kate groaned.

He shrugged, toed the carpet; his lips twitched. “So I have a sister who thinks she’s going to be God’s gift to interior design. She used me to practice on.” Michael waggled his eyebrows. “Wait’ll you see the bedrooms.”

Kate retreated. Crossing to the far end of the living area, she peeked out the sliding doors at a veritable jungle of pot plants sitting on the gallery outside. The balcony was only big enough for a couple of lawn chairs, but the view was superb, overlooking the pool area, a barbecue pit, and the broad expanse of trees and lawn between Michael’s building and the next.

“You can use the shower in my room,” he said, his voice rumbling so close to her ear Kate couldn’t repress a shiver. “It’s bigger. I’ll use the other bathroom.  Help yourself to any clothes you want. And don’t argue,” he added. Hands grabbed her shoulders, turned her toward his bedroom. “Go on, you wanted to get clean. Now’s the time.”

Kate fled. It was the only word for it. She scooted out from beneath his hands and charged across the living room. Locking the bedroom door behind her, she leaned back against the grained plywood and gulped for breath. What in heaven’s name was she doing here? How could she have gotten herself into this fix? She was about to strip naked, get into the shower in the home of the most virile man she’d ever met in her life. She was about to put his clothes next to her bare skin.

Michael Turco was sex on the hoof, temptation incarnate. If she dropped her guard for so much as ten seconds, he’d pounce.

And he thought the whole thing was funny! She could see him struggling to keep from smiling. He was playing her like a yo-yo and thoroughly enjoying himself.

Monster!

Typical male.

Visions of other men she’d known played across Kate’s closed eyelids. LALOC knights and craftsmen, the men in her neighborhood, the men she met at work, the men she’d known in her former life. The boys she’d towered over in high school, middle school, grammar school. Okay, so she’d never met a Michael Turco before. He couldn’t be unique, she supposed, but for her, he was.

Kate took a shuddering breath. She’d known it that first day he’d stepped into the office. He touched something inside her she had thought long dead. That yearning for someone who might be the other half of herself. The fulfillment of girlish dreams. Foolish dreams.

She knew how it would end. With her vows of celibacy as shattered as her heart and mind. Her life.

She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t pick up the pieces again and start over. She didn’t have the strength.

So she’d have to hope the shower cleared her head, rooted temptation from her soul. Michael’s clothing she’d have to tolerate because she couldn’t very well sit down on his pristine furniture in the mud-stained shorts and T-shirt she was wearing. Slowly, Kate pried herself off the doorway, looked around the spacious bedroom. Black lacquered chests of drawers, a silver gray quilt on the kingsize bed, more accent pillows in red and white. White vertical blinds on the wide window overlooking the pool. Michael’s sister definitely had talent. Kate sighed. And money to work with. Nice to be Michael.

Trying to invade Michael’s privacy as little as possible, Kate quickly located a plain navy blue T-shirt, a pair of khaki shorts which could be cinched in by her own belt. Her fingers lingered on the soft cotton knit, brushed the oft-washed khaki. These were Michael’s clothes.
His
clothes.

What an idiot she was!

After entering the bathroom, Kate locked that door too.

The sun set while they savored scotch from the
Isle of Skye
, made small talk while avoiding what was uppermost on their minds. It was all so peaceful, so like what
real
people did on a quiet Sunday night, Michael had to force himself to break the spell when his stomach reminded him it was well past time to order supper. “Would you mind setting the table?” he asked Kate after hanging up the phone. “Everything’s in the kitchen, wine’s in the fridge. I’ll be right back.”

Kate glowered at the placemats, plates, utensils, and wine glasses she found in Michael’s cupboards. Even at the two perfectly innocent candles in pewter holders. Somehow she and Michael were doing the domestic boogie, the two of them playing house like little kids who didn’t know the score. They were about twenty years past all this. Two hard-boiled types who had deliberately bypassed things like home and family. Companionship. Children.

Love.

Kate dropped a fork. It clattered onto the glass-topped table, bounced, skidded off onto the floor. That was her life, she thought. An accident on the way to a disaster. And, like Humpty Dumpty, she couldn’t be put together again.

Kate picked up the fork, stared at it. It wasn’t an egg. It was shining, solid. Hard as the steel it was made of. Barring a few germs—and Michael’s rug was so clean, maybe there weren’t any—the fork was as good as new. It hadn’t bent, broken, or shattered into a million pieces.

She was Kate Knight, LALOC warrior. She was more like the fork than Humpty, the proverbial egg. Maybe, just maybe, she could deal with whatever winds of change were coming her way.

Michael poured White Zinfandel into their glasses while Kate juggled the steak, deep-fried onion rings, and baked potatoes out of their containers onto the plates she had set out. She’d seemed pleased when he’d said the tablesetting was much too attractive to be spoiled by eating out of Styrofoam. He sat down, tried to concentrate on his food,
on
savor
ing
the sirloin that needed no extra flavoring. No use. How many years was it since he’d felt
so content,
since he’d wanted to extend a single evening forever? He’d had supper with other women at this table. They’d talked and laughed, all the time knowing where the evening was going to end. Fun and games. Release. A few weeks, a month or two of mutual pleasure, and that was it. No tears, no recriminations. And then his life had dwindled to something closer to Kate’s celibacy than he cared to admit. He’d closed up inside himself, built a wall. Maybe, because of his age, he’d run into too many women with serious intentions. Been scared off. Or maybe the fault was all his. He was married to his job, and there wasn’t room for a full-time woman in his life.

Until now.

He didn’t have any trouble fitting Kate Knight into his life. He’d told himself he needed her because of Mark. She was a necessary part of his plan. But now . . . he knew it wasn’t true. He liked having her in his home,
showering in his bathroom,
eating across the table.

If she knew what he was thinking when he’d heard the water running, she would have slapped his face and run.

“What’s so funny?”

Michael’s head shot up. “Um
–
nothing,” he mumbled. “How’s your steak?”

“Fine. Excellent.”

They looked at their plates, flicked their glances back up, caught each other staring. Awareness flashed across the table like a bolt of lightning. Kate drew in a sharp breath. “Look, Michael, I’m tired. I think you’d better take me home right after we do the dishes.”

He didn’t even try to argue. The time wasn’t right. As much as he wished it were. One thought was fast becoming a litany:
He was a big tough cop. He could take it.

Chapter 15

On their second trip to the Renaissance Fair in
Largo
, Kate and Michael took Bubba with them. Mona had to work. Other than Bubba’s delight in all the fair had to offer, absolutely nothing happened. And neither could have asked for a better chaperon. As Michael pulled the 4Runner into Kate’s driveway to drop off Bubba, Kate opened the door and slipped out. She turned back, met the challenge in Michael’s eyes with a cool, “Six o’clock Friday, right?”

Though the SUV’s door was still open, Michael found Kate’s face as shadowed as the gathering gloom of the early April evening. She was backing off, telling him to get lost. No one-on-one at his apartment tonight. The
why
was harder to figure. Because she flat-out didn’t want him? Because she was stuck in her self-imposed celibate straight jacket? Because she was afraid? Of him? Of herself?

Kate was waiting, ready to slam the door in his face. Michael let the silence between them hang, as regrets swelled to overwhelm the space between them. He wanted her to go home with him. He opened his mouth . . . the words stuck. Go easy, give her time.

And maybe he had turned indecisive. Was lying to himself.
Oh, hell, the woman was tying him in knots!

“I’ll be here,” Michael ground out, savagely twisting the key in the ignition. As the SUV’s motor roared to life, Kate slammed the passenger door and walked, stiff-backed and head high, toward her mobile home. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. His proud, belligerent warrior, her long blond braid swinging with every step she took.

The driver’s door popped open. Michael’s teeth knocked together from the force of Bubba’s punch to his shoulder. He still never took his eyes off Kate as she went up the cement steps, unlocked her door, and disappeared into the house. Bubba grinned. “You really like her, huh?”

“Yeah,” Michael said through lips as stiff as Kate’s back, “I do.” He summoned a wry smile of goodbye for the gentle giant. “Gotta go, buddy. See you Friday.”

Bubba still loomed in the open door. “She likes you. She just don’t show it too good. You need to be
–
uh
–
you know . . .
extra
nice to her.”

The big brown eyes staring out of Bubba’s pumpkin face reflected so much earnest entreaty Michael felt his stomach heave. He
was
trying, but sometimes Kate made it so
damned
.
hard
. “Yeah, I know,” Michael said. “Don’t worry, Bubba. I’m not going to hurt her.”

Bubba considered Michael’s promise, solemnly nodded his head. He stepped back, shut the driver’s door with care of a man who knows he’s capable of tearing it off its hinges. “G’night,” he called.

As Michael backed out of Kate’s driveway, Bubba was still standing there. He flashed a broad grin, raised his ham of a hand and waved. Michael sounded an answering toot on the 4Runner’s horn. Behind him, hidden by the angle of the mobile home’s awning windows, Kate watched as Michael’s red taillights disappeared around the corner. Good riddance! No need for contact until next weekend. So why did she feel so . . . bereft? So annoyed because Michael was being so damned . . .
professional
? Responding perfectly, as a gentleman should, to the signals she’d sent?