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“You’re worried about Colton, aren’t you?”
“That’s part of it, I suppose.” It wasn’t really a lie. Facing Colton wasn’t going to be a bed of roses.
“And the rest?” There was a break in traffic and he pulled gently on her hand. They jaywalked across the street to a park.
“I was just wondering about your life in L.A.”
“What about it?”
“I won’t fit in. Not even for a weekend.”
“Sure you will.” They were walking more slowly now, the branches of the shade trees stirring lazily in the warm summer breeze. The noise of the traffic faded away. Children scampered down the worn paths to a playground and dogs bounded across the grass. She had to ask the question that had been with her ever since seeing Nancy Pomeroy’s response to him. “Isn’t there a woman in L.A.?”
“Thousands of them.”
“You know what I mean.”
He laughed loudly, startling a bird in the lacy branches overhead. The jay flapped noisily away. “A woman,” he repeated, amused, “as in a lover?”
It sounded so childish. She couldn’t meet his eyes. “It doesn’t matter,” she lied.
“Or mistress? Or fiancée?” he prodded.
“It was just a question,” she retorted, angry with herself. “Don’t make a federal case of it.”
One side of his mouth curved upward, and he pulled on her wrist, tugging her off the path and around the broad trunk of a maple tree. “What do you think?” he asked, pinning her against the scratchy bark, his eyes delving deep into hers.
“I think it would be stupid of me to believe that an attractive man, who’s not quite over the hill—”
“Over the hill?” he hooted, his blue eyes filled with mirth. “Me?”
“I said ‘not quite over the hill’. Anyway, it’s very possible that there’s some woman waiting for you back in L.A.”
“Not one,” he corrected, touching the line of her jaw familiarly. “Dozens.”
“You’re impossible!”
“That’s why they all love me.” His arms were on either side of her head, effectively imprisoning her against the bole while the wind sifted through the leaves overhead.
“Be serious!”
“I am.” His lips, thin and sensual, twisted in amusement. “Don’t you know me better than to think I’m ready to bed any woman who shows some interest?”
“I used to think so.”
“Don’t you still? Didn’t last night mean anything?” he asked, his smile fading as he touched the end of her braid with his fingers.
“It meant a lot. To me.”
“And to me.” His breath was warm against her face, his gaze sincere. She could see the pinpoints of light in his eyes, the perspiration beading on his brow.
She swallowed hard, and he noticed the movement, his gaze shifting to her throat. “I can’t lie and say there haven’t been other women, Tess. Seven years is a long time. But there haven’t been all that many, and none of them, none, can hold a candle to you.”
Absurdly, she wanted to cry. But she fought her tears. His lips rubbed lightly over hers. She wrapped her arms around his neck, mindless of the mothers with young children in strollers, the adolescents on bikes, the older men and women sitting together, shoulders touching, on park benches.
His arms circled her and he held her close, the kiss deepening, his lips as hot and hungry as they had been the night before. When he finally lifted his head, his breathing was ragged, but a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Not that your jealousy isn’t flattering,” he said.
“Jealousy?” she retorted, wanting to deny what was so patently obvious.
