Love Game (7 page)

C
HRIS FELT MORE
in control by the time Greg met her on the couch with a bowl of Orville Redenbacher’s best. When he gave her a “That’s what I figured” chuckle before landing the popcorn on the cocktail table, she decided the night might be salvageable after all.

Extending the remote, she said, “Want a turn?”

“First things first.” Greg’s reassuring pat on her knee relieved the last traces of tension.

His discarding of foil and wire shield seemed an omen of sorts, as did his adroit lift of thumbs to the cork. As it flew, effervescent bubbles spewed upward. Before she could grab a flute, the best champagne she’d never drunk in her life went everywhere except between their lips.

Chris put her mouth to the frothing glass. With a gurgling yelp of dismay over the waste, she pointed for him to do the same, certain she had the equivalent of ten bucks in her mouth and another twenty was headed for the floor.

“A lady shucking her manners. If that’s not rich, I don’t know what is.” Rather than slurp up the expensive brew, he slapped his palm against the rim and shook hard. The bottle ejaculated with an enthusiasm to match their grapple as he aimed for her mouth. “Open up and let me watch you swallow.”

“You
open up and swallow!”

“I knew you could talk dirty if you put your mind to it.”
He grinned and lifted the bottle to his mouth. With a swish and a wink, he gulped. Both their faces bathed, the champagne almost gone and precious little consumed, Greg licked her cheeks, then sucked her drenched chin. Doing her part in the game of cleanup, she ran her tongue against the slope of his jaw. Each shaved whisker was a reminder of their opposite genders and just how much opposites apparently did attract.

“A glass,
monsieur?
” she offered, twirling the stem.

“Throw it.” He lifted its twin and tapped their rims.

“But this is good crystal,” she protested.

“So? They can bill me.” Pointing to the fireplace, he tossed up his glass and caught it neatly. “Ready if you are.”

Chris looked from the fine crystal to the hearth to Greg.

“Okay, bud, it’s your dollar.” Rearing back, she hurled with gusto. He was two seconds behind her but his flute took the lead. Her own fell apart in three sections, a puny ping to his resounding shatter.

“You throw like a girl.”

“I
am
a girl.”

“So I noticed.” Surveying the bottle, he said, “Low tide. A swig apiece and it’s empty. Want to take another shot? Put some arm into it and keep the wrist stiff.”

“Give me that!” Snatching the painted glass from his grip, she decided to save the remains of her encounter with a small region of France that had invented champagne. Maybe she was too American, her tastes too unrefined, but Andre´ hadn’t lost its appeal. Still, what she now held was more than the prettiest bottle she’d ever seen; it was a memory they shared, and that much was for keeps.

“I’d like to have this if you don’t mind.”

“Want me to order another so you can take home a pair?”

Eyeing the service-bar cabinet, Chris felt a tug she hadn’t acknowledged in several years.

“I’d rather
have a real drink.” Deciding she felt closer to being a lady of the night than the unmerry widow, she asked for and got a double brandy, straight up. Greg poured himself a stiff Scotch and settled beside her on the couch.

Chris felt him watching her as she downed a manly portion in one draw, stopping to cough, then wince before she took another gulp.

“Just curious, but did you order that because you wanted it—or needed it?”

“Both,” she confessed. “It’s been a while, but there was a time when I drank a lot more than I do now.”

“With friends?”

“No, alone. After Audrey was asleep and the lights were out. It kept me company in bed until I decided if I didn’t clean up my act, I’d have more problems to deal with than I already did. I made myself buy a new bed and once I did that, out went the bottle.”

“That must’ve been a bad time for you.”

“Bad?” She swam her tongue through the taste of memory. “Bad was good, back then, comparatively speaking.”

“Wish I’d been there.”

“I’m glad you weren’t.”

“But you are now? Glad to be with me?”

“I am. You’re good for me, Greg—in a bad sort of way.”

“You make me feel like a vice.”

“You are!” Chris teasingly bit his earlobe and whispered, “Want to hear about my other vices?”

“Only if they’re awful.”

Loose was fun; another two sips and she’d be sloppy. She swirled what was left of the brandy.

“I smoke on the sly. At first I figured it might eventually kill me, then it became a nasty habit I liked too much to give up.”

“I can only hope
for as much for myself.”

She hooted and began to wonder if she was closer to sloppy than not. Strangely, she didn’t care either way. Greg had a subtle humor, and a special knack for bringing out her own. It was, she decided, one of the sexiest things about him—next to his smile. No judgment calls from him; why the hell should she judge herself?

“If the First Methodist Church could see me now, I’ll bet I could get out of playing piano for Sunday school.”

“From what I know about Lubbock, you might even have a good chance of getting out of your job.”

“You’re right,” she agreed, sobering. “Sometimes I get really tired of it—the school politics, neighbors knowing each other’s business, watching what I say and do so my Snow White reputation stays intact. Trying to be the perfect mom, the perfect daughter. Well, I’m
not
perfect.”

“The things we have in common, don’t they beat all. Seems you’re a vice for me too, Snow White.” There was a darkness in his gaze that had the feel of a deep, wet kiss in a public place, an urgency too strong to wait for the closing of doors.

Chris tried to look away, but couldn’t. When she took a quick sip of her drink, his eyes followed the movement and remained fixed on her mouth.

“So, what other vices do you have?”

Vices…vices. She was sure she had some besides her recently acquired taste for Greg. Did reading for an hour in the tub qualify? She didn’t think so. What about hating housework and having a home that showed it? Not down and dirty enough, either.

“I always pick the longest line at checkout stands. That way I can flip through the tabloids without having to hide the trashy things at home.”

His low laughter eased into an indulgent smile. “Is there a chance that you ordered a collection of Groovin’ Oldies for $18.88 from the tube when everyone with a life was already asleep?”

“I was tempted,
but I didn’t. They lost a sale when ‘Yummy, Yummy, Yummy, I’ve Got Love in My Tummy’ rolled up the screen. Not that I didn’t like the song as a kid, but hey, I’ve got some pride.”

“Since we’re baring our souls, I have a confession of my own to make: I was weak and totally without pride.”

“No. Get outta here!”

“It’s in Dad’s glove compartment, along with some other CDs I didn’t want to move. Again. I should pay rent for the stuff they hang on to for me.”

“
You
bought ‘Yummy, Yummy, Yummy, I’ve Got Love in My Tummy’?” She cracked up and he joined her. “Boy oh boy, have I got something on you now.”

“Mutual blackmail, Chris. Never can tell when a
National Enquirer
might show up in your mailbox.”

“Don’t you dare! I wouldn’t be able to show my face to the mailman for a week.”

“Want to know what’s your worst vice? Worrying too much about what other people think.”

“And well I know it. That
is
my worst vice and ten times harder to kick than stealing smokes in the bathroom.”

“No need to steal them here.” He shoved an ashtray her way on the coffee table. “Light up whenever you get the urge. Maybe I’ll even join you with the cigar my brother-in-law stuck in my pocket. I’m an uncle again, as of today.”

The fact he hadn’t said anything until now told her where babies fit into Greg’s scheme of importance. Had Tammy just given birth, Chris knew she’d have camped out at the hospital to beg, borrow or steal any cuddles she could.

“Did you see the baby yet?”

“This morning. Cute
little sucker—until it wet on me. Reminded me why I’m a lot more comfortable holding a football or a front line than babies.” He studied his drink, then downed it. “Sometimes I wonder if I’d given fatherhood a second shot, if I would have done better…. Hell, couldn’t do worse. But I don’t ever think about it too long. I’ve got enough guilt to deal with as it is. A double dose of shame, I don’t need.” He shoved his empty glass next to hers and reached for the remote control. “Oh, by the way, I’m clean.”

“Better than clean, you smell great.”

“Not what I meant.” He shook his head and laughed as if she’d just played straight man to a one-liner. “After ending up a daddy because Arlene’s mom skipped her pills, I haven’t had sex without a condom since. What with the current climate, I thought that might be a concern you weren’t sure how to bring up.”

“Actually, I hadn’t thought about that.”

“Do me a favor? Think about it the next time. I’d hate to see anything happen to you. The world, Chris, it’s a better place with you around.”

The warm hug he gave her played havoc with her head and had an unexpected pull on her libido. His bluntness, his comfortable familiarity with the nitty-gritty of sex, seemed healthy and yet another something she could learn from Greg. Odd, though, that he was more relaxed about sex than holding a baby.

“I’ll turn off the lights,” she offered, needing some distance from their close encounter of the comforting kind. But his hurt spot, his sense of failure as a father, stuck with her. Trying to escape it, she hastened her pace and snapped out a silent order.
Sleep with him, laugh with him, anything. Just don’t let yourself start to care.
To care was to risk that black, terrible tunnel she would never again go near.
Greg had helped her to escape, and for that she was grateful, but an emotional entanglement she had to avoid at any cost.
Especially
with Greg. Audrey aside, he was too tempting and too lethal, like cheese baiting a steel trap.

Chris stopped in her tracks as he kicked off his shoes. They landed on top of the heels she’d shucked off with a laugh. No longer laughing, she watched him prop his feet on the coffee table and stretch out. His arms on the sofa’s back was a natural posture for a… “Family man,” she whispered, while an image of a cheese wedge sliced through her mind.

“Did you say something?” he asked, looking away from the tube.

“I said that I’m glad you thought this up. A relaxed evening has a certain charm for a woman who’s got a sore rear end and ate leftover french fries at the rink so they wouldn’t go to waste.”
Good, very good,
she told herself.
Hook it to the kid and make him bring it back to the bed where he’s comfortable and this whole crazy thing belongs.

“Then it’s okay by you if we don’t hit the bar where we could take on the 20-somethings? Maybe show them how to swing to Springsteen—move over, alternative rock.”

Time out! Okay, here’s the plan—no self-respecting player could possibly find a woman in support hose and up to her elbows in arthritis worth the chase.

“The older I get, Greg, the slower I go.”

“That’s good to hear. Otherwise, I couldn’t keep up.”

Chris frowned. He was too easy to be with, too easy to talk to. She couldn’t seem to quit telling him things—little things that were somehow more revealing than big secrets. Her affection for him was genuine and that was fine. But what she couldn’t—repeat,
could not
—do was let herself think of him as more than a good time on the fly.

His fly was where
she angled her gaze since she deemed it safer than his couch-potato slouch.

“Sit with me?” He patted the sofa and looked even more dangerously domestic. “I won’t bite.”

“I’m disappointed.” Her retaliatory defense got the reaction she needed to put Greg in his proper perspective. A dark brow rose over a darker glitter in his eyes. His slouch straightened and his crossed ankles came off the table. “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable with your shirt off?” she prompted, ignoring the prickling sensation on her neck.

He tapped his fingertips together, as if contemplating his answer. Suddenly, he reached for the remote control. The television silenced, only the light of the screen illuminated him as he pushed the coffee table away.

And then, he worked loose the knot of his tie. Slipping it off, he slowly, suggestively, ran its length over his palm.

“Come here.” His voice was smooth but rough around the edges.

Her feet were slow to acknowledge the command. Once she stood where he had indicated, between his spread legs, her lungs shut down, her stomach rolled over, and the sound of her thrumming heart filled her ears. The only thing that seemed to be in working order was her vision, locked in on the thin silk he continued to feed through a loose fist.

What was he planning to do with it? Why did he keep staring at her that way, saying nothing, and making her imagination leap in these crazy directions?
She had no idea where she was, only that it was someplace promising, erotic, frightening.

His slide of the tie around the small of her back caused her to
breathe out in a rush. Using it as a pulley, he drew her forward until her knees met the couch. Thank goodness for the couch, something solid to keep her knees from hitting the floor.

He gave a quick yank and she felt herself falling, guided by his hands on her waist until she was spilled over him. Her head against the crook of his neck, she felt his fingers twisting into her hair, then pulling until he stared at her, hard. Their faces so close, her halting gasps fanned his lips. The taste of danger, thick as the scent of Scotch on his breath, his voice gritty, challenging and…amused?

“What did you think I was going to do with it?”

“I—I didn’t know.”

“Were you scared…even a little?”

“Yes.”

“Curious?” When she jerked out a nod, he said, “Curious, that’s good. What about…excited? Were you?”