Key of Knowledge
Page 58
“Simon. Mr. Vane needs his house back.”
“Mr. Vane is fine with this,” Brad corrected.
“Please, Mom. Please. Tanks.”
She wavered. She saw more than the heat of competition on his face as he stared at the screen. She saw joy.
Someone died on-screen with a great deal of splashing blood, and from the delighted cackle she figured it wasn’t Simon.
“It’s a little violent,” Brad realized and winced. “If you don’t want him playing this sort of thing—”
“Simon knows the difference between reality and video games.”
“Right. Good. Why don’t we go have that coffee?” Brad suggested. “A few more minutes can’t hurt.”
“All right. Ten minutes, Simon.”
“Okay, Mom, thanks, Mom. I’m going to do it,” he mumbled, already back in the groove. “I’m going to do it.”
“It’s nice of you to let him play with your things,” Zoe began as they left Simon to the battle. “He talked about being out here before for days.”
“He’s a great kid. Fun to be around.”
“I certainly think so.”
She found herself in the kitchen with him—another spacious, stunning room. This one done in bright, cheerful white and toasty yellows that would make it seem sunny even on a gloomy day.
She coveted the acres of counter space, the forest of cupboards, some with gorgeous seeded glass. She admired the sleek appliances that had to make cooking a creative joy rather than a mundane chore.
Then it occurred to her that she was, once again, alone with him.
“You know, I should just go back with Simon, and let you . . . do whatever. We’ll be out of your way quicker.”
He finished measuring out coffee before he turned to her. “Why do you think I want you out of my way?”
“I’m sure you have things to do.”
“Not so much.”
“Well, I do. A million things. I should really be ready to pry Simon away before he loses control and starts another game. I’ll just go get him, and we’ll let ourselves out.”
“I don’t get it.” Forgetting the coffee, Brad stepped closer to her. “I really don’t get it.”
“What?”
“You’re comfortable enough with Flynn and Jordan to flirt with them, but two minutes with me and you’re not only blowing cold, you’re halfway out the door.”
“It’s not flirting.” Her voice went sharp. “Not like that. We’re friends. They’re Malory’s and Dana’s boyfriends, for Pete’s sake. And if you think I’m the sort of person who’d—”
“Then there’s that,” Brad continued with what he considered admirable calm. “The way you automatically jump to conclusions, usually the wrong ones, when it comes to me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. In the first place, I barely know you.”
“That’s not true. People get to know each other pretty quickly in intense situations. We’re in one, and we’ve been in one for close to two months now. We’ve spent time together, we have good mutual friends, and you’ve cooked me dinner.”
“I didn’t cook you dinner.” Her chin came up. “You happened to be at the house when I cooked dinner. You ate. That’s different.”
“Point for you,” he acknowledged. “You know, for some reason your response to me causes me to start sounding like my father when he’s annoyed. There’s this tone he gets in his voice, this change of body language. Used to bug the hell out of me when I was a kid.”
“I have no intention of bugging the hell out of you. We’ll leave.”
In Brad’s mind there was a time for talk and there was a time for action. When you were fed up, it was time for action. He closed a hand over her arm to keep her in place, watched temper and nerves rush across her truly spectacular face.
“There it is,” he told her. “Your usual response to me. Annoyance and/or nervousness. I’ve been asking myself why that is. I spend a lot of time asking myself questions about you.”
“Then you must have a lot of time to waste. Let go. I’m leaving.”
“And one of my theories is,” he continued easily, “this.”
He cupped his other hand at the nape of her neck, pulled her forward, and kissed her.
He’d wanted to kiss her for weeks. Maybe for years. He’d wanted the taste of her on his lips, on his tongue, in his blood. And the feel of her, he thought as he slipped an arm around her waist to bring her more firmly against him.
Her mouth was so full, so ripe, and much more potent than he’d anticipated. Her body quivered once against his, in shock, in response. At the moment it didn’t matter.
Just as it didn’t matter if this single act was taken as a declaration of war or an offer of peace. He only knew he’d slowly been going mad waiting to hold her.
She’d hesitated instead of pushing him away. And that, she would think later, when thinking was an option again, was her mistake.
He was warm and hard, and his mouth was skilled. And God, it had been so long since she’d been pressed against a man. She felt the need lift inside her, from the toes to the belly to the throat, followed by that long, lovely pull and flutter that took it all the way back down.
For one mad moment, she drew him in. The male scent and flavor, the strength and the passion, and let it tumble through her in a kind of joyful spree.
It was like a carnival, like the giddiest of rides when you couldn’t be sure—not absolutely—that you wouldn’t be flung out of your seat and into the air.
And wasn’t that fabulous?
Then she slammed on the brakes. What choice did she have? She knew what happened when you rode too fast, too hard, too high.
And this wasn’t her place, this wasn’t her man. What was hers—her child—was playing in the next room.
She pulled out of Brad’s arms.
He was shaken, right down to the soles of his feet, but he stared into her eyes and nodded coolly. “I think that made my point.”
She was no quaking virgin, and a long way from being an easy mark. She didn’t step back, that would have been retreat, but stood firm and kept her eyes level with his. “Let’s get a few things straight. I like men. I like their company, their conversation, their humor. I happen to be raising one of my own, and I intend to do a good job of it.”
“Mr. Vane is fine with this,” Brad corrected.
“Please, Mom. Please. Tanks.”
She wavered. She saw more than the heat of competition on his face as he stared at the screen. She saw joy.
Someone died on-screen with a great deal of splashing blood, and from the delighted cackle she figured it wasn’t Simon.
“It’s a little violent,” Brad realized and winced. “If you don’t want him playing this sort of thing—”
“Simon knows the difference between reality and video games.”
“Right. Good. Why don’t we go have that coffee?” Brad suggested. “A few more minutes can’t hurt.”
“All right. Ten minutes, Simon.”
“Okay, Mom, thanks, Mom. I’m going to do it,” he mumbled, already back in the groove. “I’m going to do it.”
“It’s nice of you to let him play with your things,” Zoe began as they left Simon to the battle. “He talked about being out here before for days.”
“He’s a great kid. Fun to be around.”
“I certainly think so.”
She found herself in the kitchen with him—another spacious, stunning room. This one done in bright, cheerful white and toasty yellows that would make it seem sunny even on a gloomy day.
She coveted the acres of counter space, the forest of cupboards, some with gorgeous seeded glass. She admired the sleek appliances that had to make cooking a creative joy rather than a mundane chore.
Then it occurred to her that she was, once again, alone with him.
“You know, I should just go back with Simon, and let you . . . do whatever. We’ll be out of your way quicker.”
He finished measuring out coffee before he turned to her. “Why do you think I want you out of my way?”
“I’m sure you have things to do.”
“Not so much.”
“Well, I do. A million things. I should really be ready to pry Simon away before he loses control and starts another game. I’ll just go get him, and we’ll let ourselves out.”
“I don’t get it.” Forgetting the coffee, Brad stepped closer to her. “I really don’t get it.”
“What?”
“You’re comfortable enough with Flynn and Jordan to flirt with them, but two minutes with me and you’re not only blowing cold, you’re halfway out the door.”
“It’s not flirting.” Her voice went sharp. “Not like that. We’re friends. They’re Malory’s and Dana’s boyfriends, for Pete’s sake. And if you think I’m the sort of person who’d—”
“Then there’s that,” Brad continued with what he considered admirable calm. “The way you automatically jump to conclusions, usually the wrong ones, when it comes to me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. In the first place, I barely know you.”
“That’s not true. People get to know each other pretty quickly in intense situations. We’re in one, and we’ve been in one for close to two months now. We’ve spent time together, we have good mutual friends, and you’ve cooked me dinner.”
“I didn’t cook you dinner.” Her chin came up. “You happened to be at the house when I cooked dinner. You ate. That’s different.”
“Point for you,” he acknowledged. “You know, for some reason your response to me causes me to start sounding like my father when he’s annoyed. There’s this tone he gets in his voice, this change of body language. Used to bug the hell out of me when I was a kid.”
“I have no intention of bugging the hell out of you. We’ll leave.”
In Brad’s mind there was a time for talk and there was a time for action. When you were fed up, it was time for action. He closed a hand over her arm to keep her in place, watched temper and nerves rush across her truly spectacular face.
“There it is,” he told her. “Your usual response to me. Annoyance and/or nervousness. I’ve been asking myself why that is. I spend a lot of time asking myself questions about you.”
“Then you must have a lot of time to waste. Let go. I’m leaving.”
“And one of my theories is,” he continued easily, “this.”
He cupped his other hand at the nape of her neck, pulled her forward, and kissed her.
He’d wanted to kiss her for weeks. Maybe for years. He’d wanted the taste of her on his lips, on his tongue, in his blood. And the feel of her, he thought as he slipped an arm around her waist to bring her more firmly against him.
Her mouth was so full, so ripe, and much more potent than he’d anticipated. Her body quivered once against his, in shock, in response. At the moment it didn’t matter.
Just as it didn’t matter if this single act was taken as a declaration of war or an offer of peace. He only knew he’d slowly been going mad waiting to hold her.
She’d hesitated instead of pushing him away. And that, she would think later, when thinking was an option again, was her mistake.
He was warm and hard, and his mouth was skilled. And God, it had been so long since she’d been pressed against a man. She felt the need lift inside her, from the toes to the belly to the throat, followed by that long, lovely pull and flutter that took it all the way back down.
For one mad moment, she drew him in. The male scent and flavor, the strength and the passion, and let it tumble through her in a kind of joyful spree.
It was like a carnival, like the giddiest of rides when you couldn’t be sure—not absolutely—that you wouldn’t be flung out of your seat and into the air.
And wasn’t that fabulous?
Then she slammed on the brakes. What choice did she have? She knew what happened when you rode too fast, too hard, too high.
And this wasn’t her place, this wasn’t her man. What was hers—her child—was playing in the next room.
She pulled out of Brad’s arms.
He was shaken, right down to the soles of his feet, but he stared into her eyes and nodded coolly. “I think that made my point.”
She was no quaking virgin, and a long way from being an easy mark. She didn’t step back, that would have been retreat, but stood firm and kept her eyes level with his. “Let’s get a few things straight. I like men. I like their company, their conversation, their humor. I happen to be raising one of my own, and I intend to do a good job of it.”
