THIS PERFECT KISS Page 6
To keep control of this situation with Jilly Skye, all he had to do was detect potential problems, then defuse them. At the thought, a bee buzzed by his nose. Of course. His mind immediately focused. There it is, potential problem number one.
He stomped on the brakes and turned abruptly toward Jilly. "Are you allergic to bee stings?" he asked, meeting her startled gaze.
It was a valid question. See, a bee sting could pose a serious problem. If she was stung and then stopped breathing, he'd certainly be compelled to perform artificial respiration. His mouth meeting her mouth. God. His blood … chilled—yeah, that was it—at the thought.
Her brows drew together and she closed her pink lips on whatever she was saying to Iris, then opened them again. "No."
"Fine." Only partially relieved, he turned back, pressed the accelerator, and continued thinking. What else could possibly go wrong in the next hour? Golf cart … pond … paddle…
And the answer, of course, was obvious. Curvy woman, tippy canoe.
Oh, great. Jilly was going to fall into the water. He could see it now, that paper-thin shirt plastered wetly against her breasts, the jeans that would shrink-wrap her great butt and thighs. He'd have to get her back to the house, probably in his arms, and the Blue Party team would be early and…
Damn. Even worse, there was that threat of artificial respiration again. He stomped on the brakes a second time. "Tell me you can swim."
She looked at him like he'd lost his mind. "Yes."
"You're sure?"
"Yes."
He grunted and accelerated again, slower now, to steer the cart down the zigzagging path to the bottom of the canyon. When he braked for the final time beside the boathouse, he heard Jilly suck in a breath. He ignored the sound and jumped out of the cart. Jilly and Iris followed more slowly, and he had enough time to turn over the small aluminum canoe and grab a paddle and Iris's life jacket.
Jilly stood on the grassy shore, staring up at the waterfall that tumbled with a muted roar down the canyon face to feed the canoe pond. Then her gaze swept over the rippling ribbon of water that meandered through Caidwater's nine-hole, par-three golf course. "This is … overwhelming," she said.
He handed Iris her life jacket. "Overblown's more like it." Then he dragged the canoe into the water and stood beside it on the shore, one foot at the bottom to steady the light vessel. He crooked a finger at Iris, then assured himself the little girl's jacket was secure before lifting her in. "Front bench, Auntie."
Jilly was next. She moved forward as if to step inside on her own.
"Uh-uh," Rory said. It was a moment made for a wet tumble. He grabbed her under her arms, swinging her from shore to canoe. His fingers sank into the soft sides of her breasts.
Rory froze, Jilly's feet six inches off the ground, her frothy hair tickling his chin. He was glad they weren't face-to-face, but even without looking into the no-holds-barred green of her eyes, what he'd been dreading since the moment he met her happened. Energy traveled between them, some kind of crackly, burning life force that surged up the tensing muscles of his legs and through his fingertips to meet electricity, spark spark spark, shooting from the soft, warm heat of her body.
Mouthing a curse, he dropped her with a metallic clunk.
She slid onto the seat beside Iris. Gritting his teeth, Rory took his own behind them. From the moment he'd glimpsed her cherry-red toenails, he'd known she was capital-T trouble. He picked up the paddle. It was skinnier than a certain woman's neck, but he throttled it anyway.
Iris pointed ahead imperiously. "That way."
Rory shoved off smoothly, trying to remain calm. So there was a little sizzle between him and Jilly. No need to be rattled. It was merely another reason to keep a sharp eye out for that anvil-trying-to-drop disaster.
"You two move closer to the center of the bench," he ordered, the premonition of a wet Jilly in his arms flashing through his mind. God, with the sparks flying between them, they'd both be electrocuted.
He paddled slowly and easily, making no risky moves, and directed his few comments exclusively to Iris. The pond was stocked with bass and trout and he pointed out to her the particular places he and Greg had fished for them as boys.
The two of them had run wild for a time. But then, even before Rory's voice had changed, he had changed. There had come a day when he realized that Caidwater needed at least one adult in residence.
As they floated farther from the waterfall, its noise became a soft hush in the background. His paddle swished and swished again, and in the quiet rhythm of the sound and movement, Rory found himself relaxing. A fish jumped somewhere ahead and the too-warm sun loosened his muscles and ignited fiery threads in the curly darkness of the woman's hair in front of him.
"Stop!"
At Iris's abrupt command, Rory jerked. The canoe rocked.
Jilly gasped, grabbing for the aluminum side. The canoe tipped wildly again.
"Hold still," he ordered. He held his breath until their vessel calmed. "Now," he said, "what is it you want, Auntie?"
She pointed to his right. "The island. Your and Greg's island."
They didn't have a lot of time. "I don't think—"
"Please," the little girl said.
The politeness was a first, and the parenting books he'd been reading recommended rewarding children for positive behavior. He wasn't convinced it was smart to actually point out she'd pleased him, though, so he just silently headed in the direction of the "island." It wasn't an island at all, really, but an undeveloped pocket of the canyon floor that wasn't part of the golf course.
Once they reached it, Iris scrambled out before he could help her, and Rory had to stab his paddle in the squishy pond bottom to keep both Jilly and himself from tumbling.
She braced herself by gripping the rocking side and peered anxiously in the direction the little girl had taken. "Will she be all right?"
He nodded. "My brother brings her here a lot. It was one of our favorite places when we were kids."
She half turned to straddle the bench and shaded her eyes with her hand to get a good look at him. "You grew up here?"
He nodded and shifted his legs, his knee brushing her calf. She drew hastily away from him. "Believe it or not, my grandfather and whichever wife he was on were more stable than our parents," he said. Which wasn't saying much.
About twice a year their mother had remembered she had sons, her timing based on an intricate formula that factored in the dates of the Paris couture shows and the state of her bank account. Their father's visits had been even more irregular. Rory had never discovered a rhyme or reason to his selfishness. "Greg and I always lived here at Caidwater."
"And was it a good place to grow up?"
Rory flinched, surprised. Most people assumed living in the opulence of the estate guaranteed a happy childhood. "No," he said honestly. "That's why I won't regret taking Iris away from here."
Now Jilly flinched. She swung completely around on the seat. He shifted to accommodate her movement, so that suddenly she was facing him, both of her legs caged by his much longer ones. Her jeaned knee—decorated with a lipstick-red patch that read "GO WILD!"—pressed against the inside of his right thigh like a mouth. Heat arrowed to his groin.
"You're taking her away?" she asked.
"Mm-hmm," he said, staring at her face. "I live near San Francisco. In a few weeks we'll leave southern California and Caidwater for good." Up this close, he found himself fascinated by her skin.
"You seem so eager." She swallowed. "What, is this place haunted or something?"
Rory's eyebrows rose. "Maybe so," he said slowly. By ghosts of scandals and betrayals. "But let's not talk about that."
He watched her swallow again. "What do you want to talk about?" A dash of tiny freckles, just one shade golder than Jilly's complexion, kissed each high cheekbone.
Kisses. Now why the hell did he have to think of that? It made him focus on her mouth. Like the rest of her, it was unconventional. Jilly's lo
wer lip was full, almost puffy, while the upper one had only the shallowest of dips. Really, the greedy little thing had more than her share of sensitive nerve endings. It didn't seem fair that Jilly would possess that riotous hair and those voluptuous breasts and a mouth just made for kissing, too.
Made for him to kiss.
Already half hard, he felt another flaming arrow burn toward his groin.
He glanced around, aware they were completely private. No Iris, no possible way a telephoto lens could catch them here. A disaster-proof opportunity. The sudden thought stunned him. Rory Kincaid, usually the soul of sober responsibility, was thinking about taking a kiss.
A kiss from a woman as diminutive and delectable as Jilly Skye. One who was nothing like the cool, goal-oriented beauties who typically interested him. Instead, she was a knock-knock-joking, lunchpail-toting, mind-blowing combination of luscious, danger-ahead curves.
But what would one kiss hurt? Not when Jilly was made for it. Not when that electricity was charging up again, those sparks lighting in the air between them without anything more than her kneecap against his inner thigh. He leaned forward.
She leaned back.
He almost smiled, the idea of kissing her sounding better and better, even if it made no more sense than before. "Now why are you doing that?" With his free hand, he reached around her and released her hair from the confining clip. She didn't move as it tumbled to her shoulders in those misbehaving curls.
Then he took one of the soft tendrils between his thumb and forefinger. He tugged on it gently, bringing her forward again. Her mouth was still and ripe and he remembered that nervous tic she had and was glad she wasn't nervous anymore.
She licked her lips with her tongue and he wanted to tell her he could do that for her, but that would take too much time, so he tilted his head and lowered it toward her wet, delectable mouth.
"I don't think you want to do this," she said.
He paused. "Strangely enough, I think I do." Yeah, it was out of character for him, but he just had to taste her. "Don't you?"
Her eyes widened. "Um. Uh. You don't understand. This is—this is an inauspicious day for new liaisons," she said hastily.
"What?"
Her eyes were nervous, but her mouth was still temptingly wet. "An inauspicious day for new liaisons."
He laughed softly. "Says who?"
"My, uh, chart. I have an astrologer who gives me daily readings of my chart."
His laughter died. "You're kidding."
"No." Her gaze slid away from his. "I'm an Aquarius, February seventeenth."
"That's my birthday, too." The words slipped out.
"Well, there you go," she said. "I'm sure it's a bad day for new liaisons for you, too. I could get my astrologer to make up your chart, though, if you'd like. What time of day were you born?"
He blinked. That staticky energy still crackled between them, their mouths were so close her breath was puffing against his face, and she was talking about what time of day he was born. Charts. Goddamn astrology.
But why the hell was he surprised? This was the land of the weird and unpredictable. This was, after all, L.A. That reality drenched him like a trash pail of cold pond water.
And the electricity between them smoked, went out.
He dropped the corkscrew of Jilly's hair and backed away from her. "Iris!" he yelled. "It's time to go!" It was time to regain his good sense as well.
With Iris in the canoe once more, he paddled swiftly back toward the boathouse. He had that meeting to get to. As a matter of fact, he should probably be grateful to Jilly and her astrology-induced reluctance, because he was already cutting the time pretty close. A kiss might have caused an unexplainable delay. That disaster he'd expected.
Yeah, he should be grateful.
But he wasn't, because as he headed back, that something-bad-is-gonna-happen dread dropped over him again like a suffocating shroud.
With the boathouse, golf cart, and waterfall in sight, he slowed the canoe. He glanced at Jilly's back, her posture straight and serene-looking in that white blouse.
Suddenly another impulse surged inside him, an impulse growing out of some emotion he didn't even recognize—perhaps part kissless frustration, perhaps part just plain sick and tired of waiting for the worst to happen. He tried controlling the dangerous inspiration, he really did, but it was rash and unreasonable and pissed as hell.
The reckless impulse drove him. Drove him to paddle past the golf cart and paddle past the boathouse and then forward still. Iris shrieked with delight as he flirted with the steamy-looking outer spray of the waterfall.
Then Jilly gave him a look over her shoulder, just one startled look, as if she guessed what he was planning. The spray had sprinkled waterdrop jewels in her hair, and her soft mouth was molded in the form of a "No," but Rory thought, Yes. Oh, baby, yes.
"You wouldn't dare," she said.
A month ago, a week ago, even an hour ago he wouldn't have. But something about the canoe pond and the memory of the boy who had once played there made him brash. Or maybe it was that Jilly's Lost in Space lunchpail had put him in touch with his inner child. That was a fine, southern California, psychobabble excuse.
And then there was his gut-deep certainty that something was about to go wrong anyway.
So just get it over with. A devilish voice whispered sultry temptation in his ear. Go ahead and drop the damn anvil yourself.
It seemed like a hell of a good idea. One quick way to dissolve the dread for all time.
Two hard paddle strokes. Three, and then they pierced the cold apron of the water. Iris laughed and the water clattered like a thousand wet tap dancers against the aluminum canoe, and by the time they made it through, all three of them were completely drenched.
Satisfaction, waved over Rory, a satisfaction that didn't die even when he brought the canoe back to shore and even though Jilly hadn't uttered one word. Just to be on the safe side, though, he avoided looking at her for the entire return trip in the golf cart. Certainly she'd expect some sort of logical, reasonable explanation, and he didn't have one that would make sense to her. Yet he was glad he'd taken care of the hovering problem himself.
But when they were back on land and within squinting distance of the rear terrace, that satisfaction suddenly evaporated and he felt his gut fall toward his sopping shoes.
Dammit. A collection of suits. Just like his premonition, the Blue Party strategic team, including, most likely, the "forceful" Charlie Jax, was early. They were waiting for him on the terrace. He slid a glance Jilly's way and groaned. Shrink-wrapped clothes, all right. The dousing had made her white blouse nearly invisible and he could see the lace-edged outline of her bra and the rise of remarkable flesh almost bursting out of it.
Beneath his own clammy jeans, his body hardened and he broke out in a sweat.
"Who's that, Rory?" Iris asked, pointing at the dark-suited group.
Jilly pushed a wet, squiggly strand of hair from her face and raised her eyebrows in question too.
"That's some people I'm meeting with. A political team." God. He and Iris looked like wet seals and Jilly the voluptuous mermaid that watched over them. Nothing close to the straight-arrow image the Blue Party wanted for its candidates.
He dragged his gaze away from Jilly's breasts. "They're here for an important meeting and … and I'm an idiot." A horny idiot.
Jilly shot him a look. "I'll second that."
He winced. Damn. What had he been thinking? It had seemed inevitable at the time, but now his actions were quite obviously asinine. He drove a hand through his wet hair. Blame these bad decisions and bad ideas on being back at this place. Because he was usually so smart, so focused, so unswayed by a pretty face … or a to-drool-for body.
"Listen," he said to Jilly quickly. "These people hold my future in their hands. I'm being considered for candidacy in the U.S. Sen—"
"I heard," she interrupted, frowning as if the idea brought a sour taste to her mouth.
"Dry would have been a huge improvement, then," she said sarcastically.
Ouch. So she wasn't going to be a big help right now. He could hardly blame her.
Still determined to salvage the situation, he gazed in the direction of the wide flight of steps leading up to the terrace and the team, excuses and explanations parading through his mind. "There's got to be some way to fix it," he muttered. If not, the Blue Party strategists might strategize his ass right out of the candidacy.
A thought struck him. "How about this." He paused and turned around to face Jilly and Iris. "What if we say I saved you both from drowning?"
Jilly rolled her eyes. "We'll say you're a big fat liar, won't we, Iris?"
The little girl grinned. "Big fat liar," she repeated gleefully.
He winced again. "Okay, fine. But how about if—"
"Greg!" Iris suddenly shrieked, staring over Rory's shoulder.
Rory turned around. Apparently during the time he had been creating thorny problems for himself, his brother had unexpectedly returned to Caidwater. Greg trotted down the terrace steps toward them.
Iris hurtled past Rory. Greg grinned, bracing himself as the little girl met him halfway and threw herself at him. His arms closed tightly around her as she hit his chest.
Rory moved toward Greg more slowly, with Jilly somewhere behind him. He watched his brother squeeze his aunt in a tight hug.
"Hey, bug," Greg said, and kissed the top of her wet head. He raised his eyebrows at Rory. "Hey, bro." Then his grin widened as his gaze moved on to Jilly.
Rory scowled back, remembering that transparent blouse and those don't-forget-about-me breasts. His brother had no business staring at them. And then there was the way Iris had greeted Greg, while she treated him like burned oatmeal.
He looked away, and his scowl deepened. Now that he was this close, he could see the faces of the Blue Party team and their stunned expressions as they took in Jilly's wet, provocative curves.
He opened his mouth, willing some half-plausible explanation out, but nothing came.