Yesterday's Love (12 page)

“What took you so long? You weren't still asleep, were you? Were you taking a bath? Oh, never mind. I just wanted to let you know I'd be by to pick you up in ten minutes.”

There was a pause, and Victoria finally realized some sort of response was expected. She murmured distractedly, “Who is this?”

“What do you mean who is this?” The voice was thick with righteous indignation. “It's Jeannie. What's the matter with you?”

“Jeannie?”

“Jeannie?” Tate echoed, his brows lifting. “I should have known.”

“Hush,” Victoria hissed.

“What's going on over there, Victoria Marshall? Tell the truth. Remember, this is Jeannie. Your best friend. The friend who has read your diary and knows every one of your innermost secrets.” She paused for added emphasis, then added significantly, “The friend who can read your mind.”

I hope not, Victoria thought, suddenly tugging her blouse closed and trying to wriggle out of Tate's grasp. It seemed indecent somehow to have him kissing her, touching her so intimately, while her best friend was on the other end of the phone. Jeannie might not yet know this particular innermost secret, but she would definitely know something very peculiar was going on.

“I'm sorry,” she apologized quickly. “I was just, umm, a little preoccupied.” Tate drew her right back onto his lap and brushed his lips across the swell of pale skin revealed by the plunging V neck of her still-unbuttoned blouse. Tiny sparks sizzled straight through her, all the way down to her toes and Victoria couldn't help it: she gasped and then blushed furiously.

“Victoria Ann Marshall! Is someone with you? Is that what this is all about?” Jeannie was obviously too perceptive for her own good. She sounded pleased and very smug about her guess.

“If you've got something better to do, we can forget about the fair,” she offered generously with a low, significant chuckle in her voice. Victoria wanted to strangle her. Or Tate. Or maybe both of them.

“Tell her yes,” Tate was saying.

“Yes.” She glared at him. “I mean no. What fair?”

“Never mind. Why don't I call you tomorrow?”

“No,” she repeated adamantly, ignoring Tate's dismayed groan. It was ironic that her good sense had returned long before his had. She'd never even been aware that she had any. “What fair are you talking about?”

“The crafts fair,” Jeannie explained patiently. “But don't worry about it. I can handle it alone.”

“No. I'll help. I promised,” Victoria said stoutly, a twinge of regret evident in her voice.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Maybe it was better this way, she thought, though at the moment she couldn't quite convince herself of that. Even if making love with Tate would be the mistake of a lifetime, she wanted to experience it. She had this awful feeling deep down inside that if they took more time to think about it, it would never happen. They'd both realize that there was no future for two people who were so incredibly mismatched. Her head believed that. Her heart wanted like crazy to believe that her head was wrong.

“Ten minutes then?” Jeannie was saying.

Tate's relentless fingers captured a nipple and a flash fire of blazing heat tore through her. “Make it a half hour,” she said breathlessly.

Tate shook his head. “Not nearly enough,” he whispered, as she hung up the phone.

“That's all we have, and I'm going to spend most of it taking a bath,” she said briskly, absolutely amazed that she was apparently going to go upstairs, get dressed and walk right out of this house, when what she really wanted to do was throw herself straight back into Tate's arms. She must have a screw loose, just as he—and everyone else with the possible exception of her parents—seemed to think.

“With me?” he asked hopefully.

She grinned and shook her head sadly. “Not a good idea.”

“Then you'd better make it a cold shower.”

“Very funny.”

Tate followed her up the stairs and sat down on the edge of her bed. Strangely, Victoria didn't feel the least bit uncomfortable about having him sitting there watching her as she got her clothes together. It was as though he belonged in this room, as though he'd been doing just this for years and years…as though they were married? The unexpected and all-too-pleasant thought sent a little tingle of excitement rippling through her. It was followed by a sharp stab of disappointment. It will never happen, she told herself. Be honestly realistic for once in your life, even if it hurts like hell. Tate McAndrews might be willing to have a fling with you because you're an attractive oddity in his life, but that will be the end of it. He'll marry a member of some country club who wears a cashmere sweater set, a double strand of pearls and a tiny hat with a little veil as she struts off to spend the afternoon analyzing the stock market.

“What am I supposed to do, while you're at this crafts thing?” He sounded exactly like a kid left alone on a rainy day.

“You could come with me.”

“And spend the day checking out pot holders and carved hunting decoys? No way.”

“Then you can stick around and fix the window or do whatever it was you planned on doing when you came up here with all that stuff.”

“I'm not sure I like the options.”

“You're the one who showed up without calling first.”

“I thought you wanted me to learn to be more impulsive.”

“I do,” she said, brushing a kiss across his lips as she passed by on her way to the bathroom. “One of the first things you learn when you do the unexpected is that it may not turn out exactly the way you expected.”

Tate blinked at her uncomprehendingly. “What? How can you use those words in the same sentence like that? No wonder you never make any sense.”

“I make perfect sense. You just haven't figured out how to listen to me.”

Tate stared at the bathroom door, then stood up and began absentmindedly straightening out the sheets. “There's a special way I have to listen, too?” He shook his head as he fluffed the pillows and put them neatly into place. “I'll never figure this out.”

“Of course you will.” Victoria opened the door and poked her head out. “But you're too analytical. You need to listen with your heart.”

“Right now my heart is telling me that it would give anything to be behind that door with you.”

“That's not your heart. That's your hormones.”

“Maybe you ought to come back in here and give me a lesson in anatomy.”

“Forget it, McAndrews. I gave up being a teacher,” she retorted tartly. “Buy a book.”

“I don't think a book will teach me the same lessons.”

“Sure it will,” she said, coming back into the room in another of her long skirts, this one a soft, silky green, and a scoop-necked blouse edged with multicolored rows of embroidery. “It just won't be as much fun.” She looked from him to the bed, her eyes widening in surprise. “You made the bed.”

Tate shrugged. “I needed to do something with my hands, since you weren't around.”

“If you get bored while I'm gone, you could do the ironing,” she suggested dryly, giving him a dazzling smile as she picked up her brush and drew it through a tangle of red hair.

“I didn't drive up here to play maid for you,” he grumbled.

Victoria stopped brushing her hair and turned around and faced him, her expression puzzled. “Tate, why did you really come up here?” she asked slowly.

“I told you. I wanted to help you fix this place up.”

She studied him intently. “Maybe,” she said thoughtfully.

“What does that mean?”

“That might be part of it, but it's certainly not all.” She shook her head sadly. “You still can't admit it, can you?”

“Admit what?” His expression was thoroughly bewildered.

“That you wanted to see me.”

He coughed at her outspoken, thoroughly accurate remark. “Well…”

“Why is it so difficult for you to say it? Is it because you know as well as I do that this thing that seems to be happening between us is absurd?”

“It's true,” he admitted regretfully. “We're not very well suited.”

“No. We're not,” she agreed candidly.

“Then why do I want to go on seeing you?” He sounded so confused and forlorn, Victoria almost wanted to take him in her arms and comfort him, but she knew exactly where that would lead. Suited or not, the chemistry between them was so volatile it made dynamite seem tamer than a Fourth of July sparkler. It could flare up with a mere look, much less an intimate caress.

“Because you want to get me into bed?” she suggested, watching his reaction in the mirror.

For a minute, Tate looked absolutely horrified. Then he looked guilty. Then he grinned. “Maybe you're right.”

And wouldn't it be wonderful if she were? he thought. Maybe all it would take to stop this obsession would be one simple act of passion. He gazed at Victoria and recalled exactly how he had felt when she'd been in his arms. He'd been excited, yes, but more than that he'd wanted to hold her, protect her, cherish her. He'd never felt that way about a woman before. Most of the women he knew could take perfectly good care of themselves. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew those unexpectedly protective feelings he had about Victoria wouldn't go away once they'd made love. If anything, they'd deepen until he was caught up in a tangled web of desire and caring.

“Now we're getting somewhere,” Victoria was saying triumphantly, and he wanted to warn her that she didn't have the vaguest idea what she was talking about, that this wasn't nearly as simple as she wanted to believe. This was no time to be starting a serious discussion like that, though, not with Jeannie—of the big heart, rotten cash flow and even lousier timing—about to pull into the driveway at any moment.

“Looks to me like we're not getting anywhere,” he retorted, trying to keep his tone lightly teasing. “You're leaving.”

“But I'll be back.”

“And then?”

She sighed. “And then…I don't know.” She looked him squarely in the eye and added softly, “Maybe we should both do some thinking about that, while I'm gone.”

When she walked out of the bedroom, Tate stared after her in disbelief. Apparently, she did understand after all. She had realized that there were a lot of unanswered questions for the two of them, and she was as confused as he was about where or how to find the answers. Somehow that tiny sign of her own struggle with all of this reassured him tremendously. Not that he had the slightest idea why, he thought with a sigh.

* * *

“Who was he?” Jeannie asked as she set out an array of ceramic pitchers and bowls in her assigned booth at the fair. The morning sun was already taking the damp chill out of the air and making the muted blues and greens of her pottery glisten with silver-gray highlights.

“Who was who?”

“Don't play games with me, Victoria Marshall. Who was the man who had you so rattled you didn't even recognize my voice when I called?”

“What makes you think there was a man there?”

Jeannie groaned. “Your tone of voice for one thing. You always get this nervous little flutter in your voice when you're feeling guilty. I noticed it first when we were seven and you were trying to convince your mother we hadn't eaten an entire box of strawberries, even though we had red juice from head to toe.”

Victoria glowered at her. Jeannie had been her friend for entirely too long and knew far too much. “What would I have to feel guilty about?”

“You tell me. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that you're denying the existence of a man, when I saw an incredibly gorgeous hunk walk into your back yard with a saw in one hand, a two-by-four in the other and bare shoulders that should be outlawed in the presence of unmarried females.”

She studied Victoria closely. “Have you taken up with a handyman? It's nothing to be ashamed of, you know. In fact, it's about time you stopped being so blasted choosy. You've always wanted Clark Gable, Albert Schweitzer and a knight in shining armor all rolled into one. They don't make `em like that anymore. I'm glad you've finally decided to settle for what's out there, just like the rest of us. You'll be much happier in the long run.”

Victoria burst out laughing at her friend's determined attempt to be broad-minded and encouraging in the face of what she obviously assumed to be Victoria's unexpected indiscretion. “Thanks for your vote of confidence, but I don't need it. I have no intention of
settling
for anybody. As for Tate, he is not a handyman and, even if he were, I would never be ashamed of being involved with him.”

“Then you are involved,” Jeannie said triumphantly. “I'm so glad. It really is about time. What's he like? He certainly is scrumptious looking. Have your parents met him? When's the wedding?”

Victoria groaned. “You're worse than my mother.”

“Then she has met him?”

“Oh, she's met him all right. For years I've thought her standards were tougher than the USDA's, but she practically branded Tate with her enthusiastic seal of approval on first sight. Before you even ask, he also has my father's blessing.”

“That must mean he can discuss politics and has a decent job.”

“He definitely has a job,” Victoria replied dryly.

Jeannie regarded her curiously. “The way you say that, it doesn't sound as if you're impressed.”

“Impressed is not the issue. He works for IRS.”

“Oh, my,” Jeannie murmured, her voice an interesting blend of surprise and confusion. She managed to rally quickly, though, adding cheerfully, “Well, that's certainly respectable.”

“Isn't it, though.”

“Why do I get the feeling that I'm missing something?”

“He is auditing my taxes,” Victoria admitted casually, her eyes focused carefully on the large salad bowl she'd been fiddling with for the past five minutes.