Makin' Whoopee (10 page)

He raised his head and leaned his forehead against hers. "Someone said it," he insisted, rubbing her nose with his as his fingers slid beneath her buttocks and lifted her against him. "Maybe it was me."

He brushed his lips across hers, refusing to deepen the kiss even when her fingernails dug urgently into his scalp. "Charlie . . . Charlie. Irma's coming back. I heard the front door close."

"She'll have to wait her turn," he said, then deepened the kiss at last, his mouth absorbing her gasp of pleasure.

"I'm serious," she said when she could finally speak again. "What would she think if she saw us like this?"

"She would probably think a gorgeous woman was being thoroughly kissed and cuddled by a charming, handsome—in an unostentatious way—man."

She pulled one of his curls. "You've never been unostentatious in your entire life, and if Irma catches me sitting on her breadboard, I refuse to take the blame."

When the housekeeper walked back into the kitchen, Sara was standing casually by the counter, her face flushed, her hair disheveled. Charlie stood at her side, holding out a metal cheese grater.

"—and of course," he was saying, "this is one of the main hazards of the kitchen. Next to the wire whisk—which can leave some really ugly marks—I would say this little devil causes more accidents in your average American kitchen than anything else." He smiled. "Anytime you want to know more about safety in the kitchen, just let me know."

Sara was shaking with suppressed laughter, but Irma didn't more than glance at them before she resumed her preparations for lunch.

"When are we going to start our affair, Irma?" Charlie asked cheerfully, reaching around the older woman to steal a carrot.

She slapped his hand. "When you see blackbirds flying backward I might give some time to a no-good filmflammer like you."

"You tease," he chided, and shook his head sadly. "I think we need more honesty in our relationship, Irma. You've got to stop beating around the bush. These games you modern women play are confusing for a poor country boy." With a wink at Sara he left the kitchen.

As soon as she felt reasonably calm, Sara went back to her office, but her mind kept straying from her work. She could have killed Charlie for throwing her life into turmoil. Things had been fine the way they were before. Why did he have to start messing around with their relationship? It took every bit of her energy, mental and physical, to keep up with the business. She couldn't afford this kind of distraction.

Placing the heels of her hands on her desk, she drew in a deep breath. She refused to let this happen. She would fight it, just as she had fought other unseen enemies in the past. Picking up a list from her desk, she went back to work.

After lunch they drove several miles to the north of Billings in Charlie's convertible. Sara teased him about owning a wreck, but silently she admitted that even if the wind was a little chilly, it was an exhilarating ride. Charlie was wearing his leather jacket and cap. He was right—it definitely made a statement. Smiling to herself as she noticed the stares from people in passing cars, she decided the costume looked natural on him. All he needed to make it complete was a long white silk scarf.

It took the better part of two hours for them to finish their tour of the big, empty house. Once a millionaire's retreat, the fifty-year-old building was what an unimaginative ad man might have called a fixer-upper. Sara would have to find the right person for it. With a little love and a lot of cash it could be brought into its own again.

As they explored, they listed anything that could possibly be a selling point, from basketball goal to hand-painted ceramic tiles.

Afterward they headed back toward town on the same narrow roads, driving past seas of golden grasses. Sara saw all this, but her mind was still on the house they had just left. She really loved this aspect of her job. Dealing with people was necessary, but the exciting feature, the part that could take up too much of her time if she let it, was the houses themselves. Every time they got a new listing was like Christmas morning for her.

They had just passed an old-fashioned, gingerbread house when the car made a jerking motion . . . then it sputtered and stopped.

After a tense moment, Sara turned to look at the man beside her. "You wouldn't really do this to me. You couldn't."

"Uh-oh," he said slowly.

"Uh-oh?" She threw up her hands in disbelief. "Is that all you have to say? We're stranded miles from town, and you come up with a brilliant comment like 'Uh-oh.' "

"How about 'whoops'?"

"Charlie."

"Ah, come on, Sara," he said, his cocky smile adding to her annoyance. "It won't take a minute to fix."

"You mean it's done this before?" she asked, outraged. "And you made me ride in it?"

"Well... it hasn't done exactly this. But whatever it is, I'm sure I can fix it."

She stared at him for a moment. "If I say that I have more faith in your car than in your word that you can 'fix it,' will that tell you something?"

Grinning broadly, he stepped out of the car. Five minutes later, his head appeared over the top of the opened hood. "Okay, now try it."

She slid into the driver's seat and turned the key. The engine spun several times but refused to catch. Grasping the steering wheel tightly to keep from screaming, she gave him a look that should have made him drop dead in his tracks—or at least reel a little from shock.

He slammed the hood down, and, wiping his hands on a purple print handkerchief, walked around the car to stand beside her. "That's what I was afraid of."

"Is it fixed, Charlie?" she asked carefully.

He looked away.

"Charlie."

"There was a house a little ways back—that cute gingerbread thing. I'll walk back and call Slim the Slime. He's a genius with cars. He'll come out and have it fixed in no time," he said brightly.

She gritted her teeth. "I don't trust you," she said in a low voice. "I don't trust your car. And I have never—call me old-fashioned if you want to—trusted anyone named Slim the Slime. Call Triple-A."

The last part of her monologue was said to Charlie's back, and his only reply, thrown over his shoulder, was, "Relax. You take everything too seriously."

She leaned her head back against the seat and laughed helplessly. One of these days she would kill him out of pure exasperation. No, she admitted silently. She wouldn't do that. She had accepted him a long time ago. And when you accepted Charlie Sanderson, you accepted all of him. Suddenly Sara had the awful feeling that if he ever walked out of her life, she would never laugh again.

In a surprisingly short time Charlie was back. "All taken care of," he said as he slid into the passenger seat beside her.

Sara didn't even look up. She let the obvious silence fall between them. Maybe she did accept Charlie and his quirks—she might even like them a little—but that didn't mean she was going to make it easy for him.

After a while he said cheerfully, "Nice day, isn't it?"

Silence.

"Sun's shining, birds are singing. Yes, sir, it's really a nice day."

Digging an emery board out of her purse, Sara began to file her nails.

He turned in the seat and leaned forward to watch. "You missed the pinky." Using his index finger, he lifted it to show her.

She slapped his hand. "My pinky is my business."

"I'm glad we're speaking again. I missed you."

Glancing up warily at his tone she said, "We're not speaking. Why are you sitting so close? Charlie ..."

But Charlie wasn't listening. He was touching her hair, her ear, her neck.

"Charlie," she said huskily, "this has to stop."

"Yes," he said, moving her hair to kiss her ear. "It has to stop. In fifty years or so I'll definitely think about stopping."

It was happening again, she thought as she leaned back weakly. She closed her eyes, letting the waves of pleasure wash over her. When Charlie kissed her it was difficult for her to remember why she was fighting him so hard.

His hands wandered over her body, testing the bones and the flesh. Cradling her against him, he explored every inch of her face and neck with his lips and his tongue. Time passed without her being aware of it. She was wrapped in the warm cocoon of Charlie's arms.

With her head resting against his shoulder, he stroked her long hair. "Sara," he murmured. His strange tone caused her to glance up in inquiry. "I have a little confession to make."

"You look so guilty," she said, laughing softly. "Have you been embezzling funds?"

"No." He drew the word out, increasing her curiosity.

"This sounds serious. What is it? Bodies in the basement? Wives in three states? Did you cheat on your income—"

"I didn't call Slim the Slime," he said, interrupting her teasing.

She sat up straighter. "Of course you did. You walked back to that cute little gingerbread house and used their phone. You—" She broke off and stared at him. "You didn't," she said flatly.

"Now, don't get mad," he said quickly. "I just wanted us to have some time alone. I didn't plan for the car to break down, but since it did, I figured"—he shrugged, palms up in a gesture that was too innocent—"why not?"

She stared at him for a long moment. Then without a word she opened the door and started walking back toward the house they had passed.

"Sara!" he called, scrambling from the car. "Wait, Sara. Don't go away mad. I know I shouldn't have done it." The thought might have been sincere, but she heard the laughter in his voice. "Sara, I apologize. I really do. Don't just leave. Do something to get back at me. You can do anything you want and I won't say a word. Rip my heart out. Step on my cap. Anything."

She stopped walking abruptly, causing him to run into her back. Swinging around, she said, "Give me your shoes, both of them."

"Now, Sara ..."

"Both of them."

His expression wary, he took off both his shoes and handed them to her. She threw one as far as she could on the left side of the road and chucked the other into some brambles on the right side. Then, dusting off her hands, she started walking again down the rough, rocky road.

"Sara—ouch—wait up."

She didn't answer.

"Ah, Sara Love, you wouldn't—" He broke off, yelping as his feet met a sharp rock. "Son of a— That hurts. With a little effort I bet they could have found soft gravel. Nobody takes pride in his work anymore," he grumbled. "Sara, you wouldn't really make me walk all the way back to that house . . . would you? Sara?"

She kept walking, staring straight ahead so that he couldn't see her smile.

Deep in a wing chair, Sara sat before the fireplace, staring into the flames. For two hours she had been doing the same thing. One minute she would almost laugh when she remembered Charlie hobbling along the gravel road behind her; the next minute she would run her hands through her hair in frustration before a determined look would come over her face as she tried to put him from her mind.

At the lodge and even afterward she had told herself that she could control the situation. But she couldn't lie to herself anymore. Charlie wouldn't let her. Somehow he had managed to invade her every thought, waking and sleeping. A kind of brainwashing had taken place without her even being aware of it. He had touched her so often, his caresses now seemed natural. He took every opportunity to kiss her—and now she expected his kisses. Somewhere along the line their friendship had deepened into something more. Gradually he had been getting her used to the idea of physical intimacy.

And—damn his eyes—it had worked beautifully, she thought, rubbing the aching spot at her temple. This afternoon in the car, when he had held her and kissed her, she hadn't even made a token protest. She was very much afraid there was no going back. Either the relationship would progress along the lines Charlie had set up or it would end completely.

Glancing down, she realized she was absentmindedly stroking the rough fabric of the armchair. She had never thought of herself as a sensuous person, but lately all her senses were more alive. The very air around her seemed more vital. Leaning her head back, she tried to make her mind go blank, but the texture of the upholstery conjured up a vision. She saw vividly that night at the lodge when she and Charlie had come so close to making love. She could feel again his flesh beneath her fingers, the hardness of his chest against her breasts.

Closing her eyes, she swore silently. Now she was having erotic dreams while she was wide awake. Why was this happening to her?

She shifted restlessly in the chair, wondering if this was finally the end of their partnership. How could it continue, when she couldn't keep her mind on business for more than a few minutes at a time? But then, how could she go on with no Charlie in her life? The very idea of facing days and years without him made her weak.

Looking back over their time together, she wondered what she would have done without Charlie.

He had teased her through those first rough days when they had finally opened for business. But more important, because he was there, she had had to pretend she was confident. She had had to pretend that she really knew what she was doing. And before long the pretense had become reality. Charlie was responsible for that. He was the reason their business was a success. He had made everything possible for her. It made her shudder even to think of what would have happened if he hadn't been there.