Janet (6 page)

“Hmm.” She didn’t know if she had made the
sound of contentment or if he had. No matter. The kiss was sweet
anesthesia. They were both going under.

Dan had meant to make the kiss swift and hard
and quick. He’d meant to prove his domination and send her on her
way, wiser and more cautious and aching for more. Instead, he was
the one aching for more.

He rolled to his side, taking her with him,
never losing contact with her mouth. Ahh, she was delicious. And so
giving. A great tenderness got mixed up with passion. This had to
stop.

He drew back and looked into her eyes. It
took great effort to remember that they were only playing a
game.

“Did you get what you came for, Doc?”

“Is that a victory chortle I hear,
Coach?”

“Yes.”

She moved so close to him that she could feel
the buttons on his flannel shirt pressing into her chest, even
through the sweatshirt.

“It’s a little early for a celebration. I
haven’t quit the field yet.”

Pressing her mouth against his, she began her
assault.

Her lips stroked across his, as sugary sweet
and soft as the inside of cream-filled cupcakes. His hands glided
into the silky curls at the nape of her neck and urged her closer.
Drugged by the sweet wine of her kisses, he forgot that he was
playing a game.

He couldn’t get enough. His hands began to
move, tracing her body, flowing over her with the soft tenderness
of a love song.

Where was the victory? she wondered. Where
was the sense of conquering the enemy, vanquishing the
opponent?

They couldn’t be lying on the hard ground of
the soccer field. Some trick had transported them to Eden. She was
woman; he was man. She was his Eve; he was her Adam. Together they
were discovering romance.

Good Lord, she didn’t have time romance! She
pushed away, and Dan Albany stopped kissing her. She didn’t know
whether to thank good manners or Divine Intervention.

“Quitting the field so soon, Doc?”

“Not quitting the field.” She stood up on
legs that felt wobbly. Still, she managed a triumphant smile. “Just
quitting while I’m ahead.”

“You are?” He rose with easy grace and cupped
her face, turning it this way and that, studying her with the
thoroughness she used on bacteria under a microscope.”Is that a
blush I see?”

“No. It’s the flush of victory.”

“You won, did you?” His eyes crinkled at the
corners with amusement.

“I think I proved my point rather nicely.”
She pulled out of his grasp and walked to the nearby bench. Picking
up her, she turned to face him again. “When I want to, I can
definitely be your type. Good day, Coach.”

She walked quickly away, triumphant in her
victory, totally unaware that she was still wearing his
sweatshirt.

He watched her until she was out of sight.
Then he gathered up the soccer balls and sprinted to his pickup
truck. Without his sweatshirt and her body heat, he was suddenly
cold. He turned on the key and let the motor run, blowing on his
hands to warm them until his heater could kick in and take away the
chill.

Snatches of old country-and-western love
songs came to him, and he began to sing in his loud but passable
baritone. A couple of his students, chasing their dog down the
sidewalk, heard him singing and stopped to yell, “Hey, Coach.
What’cha doin’?”

Grinning, he rolled his window down a notch.
“Just practicing, boys.”

They giggled and waved and gave chase to
their dog again.

Dan put his truck into gear and headed home.
He had a lot to do before evening. If Doc thought she’d proved
herself to be his type, just wait till he got through proving
himself to be
her
type.

o0o

By the time Janet got back to her condo she
had rationalized the encounter on the soccer field to put herself
in the best possible light. The kiss had definitely been her trump
card, she thought as she pushed open her door. She’d noticed Dan’s
heavy, erratic heartbeat, his ragged, uneven breathing. Yes, she’d
definitely disturbed the coach. That meant her plan was
working.

She stripped off her parka and saw Dan’s
sweatshirt. Good heavens. She’d walked off the soccer field in such
a haze of passion that she’d forgotten to give him back his shirt.
Some victory. He must be laughing his head off.

She certainly wasn’t going to take the
sweatshirt back now. That would only prove to him that she’d
carried it off by mistake in the first place. Her best plan would
be to return it and act as if she’d meant to keep it all along.

Taking a hanger from her closet, she
carefully hung up her parka; then she started to strip Dan’s shirt
over her head. The minute her fingers sank into the soft material,
she thought of the remarkable contradictions in him. How could man
with that hard, muscular body be so gentle with his hands?

She’d wear the shirt a while longer. After
all, it was an extraordinarily chilly day. Humming an aria from
Puccini’s
Madame Butterfly,
she got her bottle of lemon
wax and began to polish the scruffs on her second hand
furniture.

o0o

By evening Dan had worked himself into a
sweat trying to match his paltry collection of shirts and ties to
his one good wool suit. His Sunday suit, he called it. It was
seldom worn and hopelessly out of style and certainly not
his
style, but he kept it around for funerals and weddings
and graduations. A man in his position couldn’t afford to be
entirely suitless.

He finally settled on a pale pink oxford
shirt and a classic red-striped silk tie. It took him ten minutes
to get the tie right, and then the knot was a little lopsided. The
clock in the hallway struck seven. The tie would have to do. He
wanted to be at the ballet early enough to watch for Janet.

The thought of her made him whistle. Taking
his brush and whistling a good Hank Williams tune, he tried to tame
his hair into submission. It was hopeless. His hair always looked
as if he’d just stepped off a Ferris wheel at the amusement park.
Maybe it would be too dark for Doc to notice.

Still whistling, he got into his pickup truck
and drove across town to the Civic Auditorium. He parked between a
silver Cadillac and a black Mercedes, then strode down the sidewalk
to the gaily lit auditorium.

Crowds of people milled around the foyer,
some on the staircase, some just inside the glass double doors,
chatting and laughing, their voices as discreet as the clothes they
wore. Black satin, burgundy velvet and ivory silk. The women
rustled when they moved. Charcoal gray and black pinstripes and
pristine white. The men fairly squeaked when they moved, as if they
had been too long in their three-piece business suits and needed
oiling.

Smiling, Dan leaned against the stair railing
and watched the front doors. “Nothing like being a canary at a
convention of sparrows.”

“I beg your pardon.” A bejeweled matron
passing by stopped to arch her painted-on eyebrows at him.

He smiled at her. “Lovely evening for the
ballet, isn’t it?”

“Yes.
Sleeping Beauty
is my
favorite. Such drama, such magnificence, such...”

He didn’t hear the rest of what she was
saying, for at that moment Dr. Janet Hall walked through the front
door. She was wearing a green velvet evening suit, stunning in its
simplicity. Her rich hair was caught high on her head with a single
diamond clasp. The real thing from the sparkle of it.

Never taking his gaze from Janet’s face, he
murmured an apology to the matron. “Excuse me, please. There’s
someone I have to see.”

He started toward her, moving slowly down the
stairs as if he were suddenly caught in a delicious wave of hot
honey.

She became still, every muscle in her body
tense and alert as she sensed herself being watched. When she
spotted Dan Albany, she had the sensation of suddenly sucked into
the eye of a hurricane.

He was moving toward her with determination,
his wild dark hair curling around his head, his old-fashioned suit
somehow looking elegant and just right on his big frame. Even his
pink shirt and red striped tie were exactly right for him. There
was nothing conservative and go-by-the-book about Dan Albany. He
was as bold and brash and virile as a Thoroughbred at stud.

“Hello, Doc. Fancy meeting you here. Are you
meeting someone?”

“No.”

“Good.” Dan reached up and touched the soft
curl on her cheek. “Do you always look so delicious at the
ballet?”

“Probably. Are you hungry?”

“Always.”

“Too bad, Coach. I’m not in the mood to be
anybody’s appetizer.” She smiled at him in a way she hoped was
dismissive. “You can let go of my arm, now. What are you doing
here?”

Keeping a hold on her with one hand and
taking a couple of programs with the other, he led her into the
auditorium. “Which do you want me to do first? Let go, or tell you
why I’m here.”

She didn’t want him to let go at all, in
spite of the face that she knew what his game was. He was as
transparent as plastic sandwich bags. Love of music hadn’t brought
him out this evening. He was out to prove his suitability.

Suddenly she smiled. Maybe she could turn the
evening to her advantage.

She squeezed the hand that was holding her
arm and gave him a coy smile. “I don’t know why I’m being so testy.
All that fresh air this afternoon must have gone to my brain.”

He could barely keep from laughing. Doc was
flirting again. She’d affected such a syrupy drawl he’d half
expected her to say “mah little ole brain.” She even batted her
eyelashes a time or two.

“I found the fresh air invigorating, myself.
We’ll have to do it again sometime.’’

Her cheeks got a shade pinker. He chuckled.
“Play soccer, I mean.”

“Of course. I knew what you meant.” She
detached herself from him and nodded toward the center section.
“Are these seats all right with you?”

“They are perfect for what I have in
mind.”

Her pulse kicked up a notch as she took her
seat. By now she didn’t try to rationalize that phenomenon. Dan
Albany was the cause, plain and simple. Fortunately, she knew an
overactive pulse wasn’t fatal.

“Mind your manners, Coach. You’re at the
ballet.”

He slid into the seat beside her, stretching
his long legs so that his right one was leaning against her
thigh.

He winked at her. “I know. And I can’t wait
until they dim the lights.”

“You’re looking forward to the music, are
you?”

“No. I’m looking forward to the dark. I have
a few ideas about what a man and a woman should be doing when the
lights go down and the music starts up.”

“Like what, Coach? Eat hot dogs and raise
their cholesterol levels?”

“A few delicacies, savored slowly, go well
with a little night music.”

“It’s all a matter of taste, I suppose.”

The house lights dimmed, and he reached for
her hand. “Taste. .and touch,” he whispered.

Janet was glad for the darkness. She was in
such a turmoil she was sure it showed on her face. He was wicked
and arrogant and unsuitable and charming.

She settled back in her comfortable chair and
prepared to enjoy the ballet.
Sleeping Beauty
would be a
feast for the senses, with magnificent backdrops, sparkling
costumes, graceful dancing and fabulous music. Tchaikovsky had
always been a favorite composer of hers, one who could transport
her to another world.

But tonight he had some fierce competition.
Dan was working a magic all his own, his strong fingers massaging
her palm, making quick feather-light circles that were faintly
erotic and highly disturbing.

He leaned over and whispered in her ear. “I
never did trust a man who wore pink silk britches.”

She stifled a giggle. It was amazing, this
ability of his to make her forget decorum. Meaning to tell him off,
she turned and found herself a whisper away from his mouth.

“Yes?” His breath fanned warmly across her
cheeks.

“The music has started.”

“So it has.” In the dark his vivid blue eyes
absorbed the light from the stage and mesmerized her. She could
have looked into them the rest of the evening, letting Sleeping
Beauty fend for herself. When he finally turned away, Janet felt as
if she’d been released from a steam bath.

The music swept around her and through her.
Tchaikovsky and Dan. It was a heady combination.

She sneaked a glance at him. He seemed as
relaxed and comfortable as if he were enjoying a Southeastern
Conference play-off baseball game on TV. His ability to adapt
himself to any circumstance was uncanny. She’d wager her bank
account that he had never been to the ballet, but she couldn’t tell
it by looking at him now.

Suddenly he turned and caught her watching
him. He winked and whispered to her behind his program, “It’s
amazing what a mighty sword can do for a man. I think she’s going
to go for that fop.”

Trust him to find the humor in Sleeping
Beauty’s dramatic rescue.

“He’s a prince.”

“If I had a mighty sword would I be a
prince?”

Her gaze raked across his broad chest and
downward to his muscular legs. Even the suit couldn’t disguise his
obvious physical charms.

“You don’t need a sword.” The words were out
before she realized what she was saying. To make matters worse, she
was leaning so close in order not to disturb the people around her
that her mouth was practically on Dan’s ear. A slight movement of
his head, and she found herself nose-to-nose with him.

“Thanks, Doc.”

Before she could take back the compliment, he
kissed her. The touch was feather-light and so brief it probably
went unnoticed by the ballet fans, but it was a kiss nonetheless.
She hastily sat back in her seat and fanned herself with her
program. She had never carried on so at the ballet. And she’d never
had as much fun.