Night Fever (15 page)

He helped her out and escorted her into the restaurant—one so fancy that the place setting had half a dozen assorted forks and spoons—and Becky ground her teeth together, hoping she wasn't going to embarrass him.

The menu, to add insult to injury, was in French. She blushed, and Kilpatrick, seeing her face, could have kicked himself. He'd meant to give her a special evening, not make her feel out of place.

He plucked the menu out of her cold, nervous hands with a quiet smile. “Which do you prefer, fish, chicken, or beef?” he asked softly.

“Chicken,” she said immediately, because it was usually less expensive in the restaurants she'd been to before and she didn't want to strain his pocket.

He leaned forward, staring at her. “I said, which do you prefer,” he emphasized.

She colored delicately and dropped her eyes. “Beef.”

“All right.” He motioned to the waiter, who came immediately, and he gave the order in what sounded to Becky like flawless French.

“You speak French?” she asked.

He nodded. “French, Latin, and a little Cherokee,” he said. “It's a knack, I suppose—kind of like the ability to make a mouthwatering lemon pound cake.”

She smiled at him. “Thank you.”

“Believe it or not, I didn't bring you here to make you uncomfortable,” he said. His dark eyes narrowed. “Something else bothers you, besides the menu,” he said abruptly. “What?”

She couldn't seem to fool him. Anyway, why bother, she thought recklessly. He'd seen where she lived; he must have some idea of her background. “All these utensils,” she confessed, gesturing toward them. “At home we have a knife, a fork, and a spoon, and I only know where they go because of home economics class at school.”

He chuckled. “Well, I'll try to educate you.” He did, amusing her with the various salad and dessert forks and the collection of spoons until the waiter came with their orders.

She watched him to see which utensils to use. By the time they reached dessert—a scrumptious pecan pie with vanilla ice cream on top—she felt as if she'd had an education in the culinary arts.

“What did we eat?” she asked in a whisper when they'd finished dessert and were having a second cup of strong black coffee with real cream.

“Boeuf bourbonnaise,”
he informed her. He leaned forward and lowered his deep voice. “It's an uptown French beef stew.”

She laughed softly. “Is it, really?”

“Really. It's made with the kind of spices we put in pies and with a good red wine.”

“I'll have to dig out my cookbooks and try it on the family,” she mused. “I'll bet Granddad would slip his to the dog.”

“Do you have a dog?” he asked.

She remembered his big German shepherd and felt sorry for him. “We did have; an old hound we called Blue. But the mailman ran over him last year. I'm sorry about Gus. I guess you really miss him.”

He moved his coffee cup in its thin china saucer absently. He nodded. “The house is pretty quiet. Nobody needs to be taken for a walk anymore.”

“Rourke, why don't you get another dog?” she asked gently. “Really, it's the best thing to do. There are pet shops all over Atlanta. You could find any breed you liked.”

He searched her soft eyes. “What breed do you like?”

She smiled. “I like collies,” she said. “But I've heard that they don't do well here in the South because it gets so hot. And they're long-haired, so the fur gets everywhere.”

He leaned back in his chair. “I like basset hounds.”

She laughed. “I like them, too.”

“You'll have to come with me when I go looking for one,” he said idly. “After all, it was your idea.”

Becky felt as if she'd been shot through with pleasure. “Oh, I'd enjoy that,” she said.

“So would I. Maybe next weekend. I've got a pretty full calendar during the week, but we'll find time.”

She wondered what he'd say if she told him that she was falling in love with him. Probably he'd grin and think she was joking, but it was the truth. He appealed to her in so many ways.

“Let's go over to that new nightclub in Underground Atlanta and dance for an hour or so,” he murmured, checking his watch. He raised an eyebrow. “You said once that you liked opera.”

“Well, yes,” she began.

“They're playing
Turandot
at the Fox next month. We can go.”

“To a real opera?” She caught her breath.

“Yes. You can wear that dress, as a matter of fact,” he added with a long, meaningful look. “You're dishy, Becky.”

She smiled at him. “Not really, but thank you for saying so.”

“Come on.”

He got up and helped her up, watching her with warm curiosity while he waited to pay the bill. She seemed to find the restaurant fascinating. He found her the same way. He was looking forward to introducing her to a new world of luxury and culture, even if it only lasted for a few weeks. He enjoyed being with her. Loneliness was beginning to wear on him. He liked having someone to go places with. Even an evening out was a treat for him, and Becky's delight with her surroundings made it all worthwhile.

One unpleasant thought marred his pleasure in the evening. He'd become a target, and they still hadn't found out who'd put the bomb in his car. He could be putting Becky at risk just by being seen with her, and that bothered him. He didn't want her hurt. But if it was just him the perpetrator was after, perhaps Becky wouldn't be at risk. He wouldn't allow himself to think about her brother or the Harrises at all.

He took her to Underground Atlanta, to one of the newer clubs, and Becky found herself in another world. This was the Atlanta she'd never seen—the bright and sparking nightlife that made friends of total strangers.

“It's beautiful,” she exclaimed when they were seated near the dance floor. “But I don't think I can do that.” She gestured toward several couples who seemed to be human contortionists as they danced to the throbbing rhythm of the music.

“Neither can I,” he murmured dryly. He'd ordered ginger ale for himself and Becky, forgoing his usual scotch and water. He didn't want to give her the impression that he was a hard-drinking man. In fact, he wasn't. He liked the occasional scotch and water, but that was about the extent of his interest in alcohol.

“Do they ever play slow music?” she asked.

Just as she made the remark, the music stopped and a slow, bluesy melody began to build. Kilpatrick got to his feet and held out his hand. Becky put hers into it and followed him onto the dance floor.

He was much taller than she was, but they melted together as if they'd been especially designed to fit. He smoothed her hand onto his chest and held it against the soft fabric of his dinner jacket with his own big, lean hand warm over it. His other hand slid around her waist and drew her completely against him so that her body rested against his as they moved, her cheek against his chest.

She felt like heaven in his arms. Her body was soft and warm, and the smell of her was like wildflowers in his nostrils. He looked down at her, so vulnerable and trusting in his arms, and thought that he'd never felt quite so content. But with the contentment was a fierce awareness of her as a woman, a heated need to have her even closer than this, to bend his head and take her soft mouth under his, to teach her passion.

Becky was unaware of his deep hunger, but she was feeling one of her own. His body was taut and fit, and the feel of it was making her heart beat fast. He smelled of spicy cologne and soap—masculine smells that acted like a drug on her emotions. It had been years since she'd danced with anyone, and never with anyone like Kilpatrick. He led her around the floor with consummate ease, as if dancing was second nature to him. It probably was. He knew a lot about women, and this nightclub seemed to be his kind of place. That meant he'd probably taken other women out to similar places, and gone dancing like this, except that at the end of the evening, he hadn't taken his date straight home. Her face burned as she saw unwanted images of Kilpatrick with other women and she stiffened slightly in his arms.

“What is it?” he asked at her forehead, his voice deep and slow and lazy.

“Nothing,” she whispered.

His hand at her back pulled her closer, sliding up to the flesh left bare by the cut of her dress, warm and sensuous on her bare skin. “Tell me, Becky.”

She sighed softly and looked up at him. She hadn't realized his face was so close. In the dim light, it seemed darker than ever, harder, and his superiority in age made him seem a world away from her. “Why did you ask me out?” she whispered.

He didn't smile. His dark eyes held hers and he almost stopped dancing. His body moved slowly against her as the music blared around them and other couples drifted past. “Don't you have any idea?” he asked quietly.

Her lips parted on a held breath. “Because of the lemon pound cake?” she ventured.

His hand slid up into the thickness of her hair and grasped it, holding her face at just the right angle as he bent toward her. “Because of this,” he breathed.

She couldn't believe what he did. Her eyes widened with faint surprise as his hard lips brushed across hers once, twice, in a lazy exploration that was pure seduction.

The lean fingers in her hair contracted, making her gasp so that her lips parted. He made a sound deep in his throat and began to move again to the music. His mouth didn't touch hers, but hovered just above her lips, making her head spin as they danced.

Her eyes met his shyly as she felt his coffee-scented breath on her lips.

“Exciting, isn't it?” he whispered huskily and his fingers began to move in her hair, caressing movements that made her body react fiercely. “Half of Atlanta around us, and I'm making love to you on a dance floor.”

“You…aren't,” she managed.

“No?” He smiled. It was a different smile from any she'd ever seen on a man's face before. It threatened and seduced at the same time. He tugged her head back farther on his shoulder and executed a turn that brought one long, powerful leg in between both of hers, a contact that made her gasp out loud even as his mouth moved closer and she breathed him.

She was hardly aware of the music. He did it again, and again, his eyes blazing into hers, his body an instrument of the most exquisite torture. She caught at his arm when the contact worked on her so deeply that her knees went weak.

“Are you going to faint on me, Becky?” he whispered, sliding his cheek against hers so that his breath was warm on her ear. He nibbled the lobe delicately. “If it's this affecting on a dance floor, try to imagine how it's going to feel on your front porch when I kiss you good night. I can promise you, I won't be this gentle.”

She shivered. He laughed softly and stopped as the music ended. She couldn't look at him as he escorted her back to their table; she was overwhelmed by the sensations she'd felt. Sensuality was new to her. So was desire, but surely that was what she'd felt shivering through her body at the veiled threat in his words.

“Look at me, you coward,” he taunted when they were sipping piña coladas a little later.

She lifted her eyes, and a shock of pleasure ran through her as she met that dark, knowing gaze.

“Tell me you don't want my mouth, Becky,” he murmured, letting his gaze fall to her parted lips.

“If you don't stop that, I'm going to melt on the floor,” she said in a husky whisper. “Shame on you.”

He chuckled over his drink. “Dewy-eyed innocent,” he murmured. “You're a refreshing change, Rebecca Cullen. At least I know what kind of woman I'm dealing with this time,” he added, half to himself.

She stared at him curiously. “What do you mean?”

He finished his drink and stared at the empty glass with narrowed eyes. “Did you know that I was engaged once, when I was in my twenties?”

“Yes,” she said.

He lifted his gaze to hers. “She was a lesbian.”

She didn't know what to say. She knew what a lesbian was, but it puzzled her that he'd become engaged to one.

“Did you know?” she asked finally.

“Good God, no!” he returned curtly. “She was beautiful and sophisticated, and considered in my circles to be a good catch. She came from old money. I was crazy about her.” He twirled the empty glass in his hands, smarting from the memory. “She teased me and provoked me until I was wild to have her. We got engaged, and one night she invited me over after a dinner I had to attend.”

His eyes narrowed. “I was two hours late. I guess she'd given me up, but her door was unlocked, so I assumed she was waiting. I'd worked myself into a frenzy. She was mine, and that night all my dreams were going to come true. I pushed open her bedroom door and got the shock of my life.” He put the glass down. “She was in bed with her female law clerk, and the situation spoke for itself. I took my ring back and she begged me not to give her away. After that, I didn't trust women very much. I've had my flings, but nobody's gotten close enough to touch my heart again. It was a hard lesson,” he concluded with a wry smile.