Yesterday's Love (7 page)

Still, it was a beginning. But of what? A friendship? A brief romance? Surely it could be no more than that. They'd drive each other crazy, just as his parents had. His mother's disorganization, her off-the-wall logic and her absolute refusal to think beyond the moment had given his father fits. And, much as he loved his mother, Tate had agreed with his father. Life was supposed to have an order, a certain logic to it. You had to be able to count on things.

He glanced up at Victoria, who was stacking dishes haphazardly on the counter. She was definitely not a woman who knew the first thing about order. He sighed as a plate slipped off the counter and crashed to the floor.

“Let me help,” he said, bending down to pick up the pieces.

“I've got it.”

Their hands closed over the same piece and their eyes met. The already charged atmosphere sizzled with electricity. Almost against his will, Tate leaned slowly forward and kissed her. He meant it only to be a light, teasing kiss, the sampling of her honeyed sweetness that he'd wanted all evening. Instead, it virtually crackled with passion. The piece of china fell back to the floor, as Victoria's hands slid slowly along his arms, finally coming to rest lightly on his shoulders. His own hands circled her tiny waist and lifted her to her feet, pulling her body tightly against his. The curves seemed to fit perfectly into his hard contours, as though a sculptor had carved them as a matching pair out of a single piece of marble.

As her body trembled in Tate's muscular arms, Victoria remembered every passionate movie kiss she'd ever envied. She sighed, unconsciously opening her mouth to Tate's exploring tongue, relishing the sensation. The kiss was sweet yet hungry, gentle yet demanding. A riptide of warm, exciting feelings flooded through her, bringing her body alive in a most disconcerting way. She wanted more, wanted Tate's lips to move beyond her mouth, wanted his hands to touch the breasts that were straining against the thin cotton of her dress. She also wanted him to stop, to give her time to catch her breath. These feelings were too new, too unexpected and far too powerful for her to deal with quite yet.

“Tate,” she murmured, as his lips blazed a path down her neck. The fiery touch was even more intense, more nerve-shattering than she'd anticipated. She moaned softly. “Tate, please. It's nearly eight.”

“So?”

“We promised my parents we'd be there by eight.”

“They think we're involved, remember. They'll understand.”

His lips were at the crest of her breasts, hovering over the creamy flesh. Victoria's body tensed in excited preparation for his touch, but she said firmly, “No, they won't.”

Tate kept one arm securely around her, locking her body against his, as he glanced at his watch. “We're not due there for another fifteen minutes.”

“It's a twenty-minute drive.”

“We could speed.”

“You said you never broke the law.”

“I don't, but I think this is worth an exception.”

“I will not be responsible for your fall from grace, Tate McAndrews,” she said saucily, slipping determinedly from his embrace. “Besides, we need to talk some more about this little visit we're about to pay to my parents. I don't think you have any idea what you're letting yourself in for.”

“That's not exactly true,” Tate denied with a weary sigh of resignation. “When I came down here yesterday, I didn't. Now I know I'm in trouble. Your parents are just the tip of the iceberg.”

O
n the drive to her parents' house, Victoria tried to think of some way to make Tate understand that he was about to undergo a third degree that would make one of his IRS investigations seem like child's play. Every time she opened her mouth to explain, he told her to quit worrying. She finally shut up, but she didn't stop fretting.

She wasn't sure what concerned her the most: her mother's delighted, if mistaken, impression that she and Tate were involved or the possibility that her parents would discover that he was auditing her taxes. Either one posed a minefield of hazards that the man next to her couldn't possibly have considered when he innocently accepted her mother's invitation. She still didn't understand why he'd agreed to do that, much less why he'd wrangled that dinner invitation from her, but right now she didn't have time to puzzle that part out. She was far more concerned with this sinking feeling of dread that she was about to end the evening with either an entirely inappropriate fiancé or a companion who'd been hog-tied and sternly lectured until he agreed to drop his inquiry into her financial affairs.

“Tate, maybe we should forget about this,” she suggested hopefully. “I'll explain to my parents that your malaria flared up again, and you were in no condition to drop in.”

The look he gave her was withering. “I don't have malaria.”

“They don't know that.”

He glanced over at her, his expression puzzled. “It's just a friendly visit. Why are you making such a big deal about it?”

“Because my parents are going to make a big deal about it and you don't seem to be prepared.”

“I've been dating since junior high school and been asked every conceivable parental question. They will not rattle me.”

“First of all,” she reminded him, “this is not a date.”

“It isn't?”

“You said yourself it was part of the investigation,” she said irritably, then added pointedly, “an investigation I don't want them to know about.”

Tate frowned. “Well, it is part of the investigation…in a way.”

“What does that mean?”

“It's not exactly official.”

“Meaning you don't usually drop in for dinner when you're auditing someone's taxes.”

“Right.”

“Then it's a date after all?” she asked weakly, her head swimming. Dear Lord, this was getting complicated. Maybe
she
could develop malaria and go home.

Tate's frustrated expression reminded her of the way she felt. “That's what I said in the first place,” he told her, sounding puzzled. “Isn't it?”

“I suppose,” Victoria muttered, then sighed. “Okay, then. How many times have you been asked what your intentions are on a first date?” she challenged, then shrugged in defeat. “Oh, forget it. If you're crazy enough to want to go through with this, far be it from me to try to stop you. Turn here.”

Tate pulled into the driveway of a lovely old farmhouse surrounded by towering oaks that were beginning to bud. Pale green sparkled in the early moon-light against the dark backdrop of massive trucks and mighty branches. Unlike Victoria's ramshackle house, this one looked as though it had been in top condition for a hundred years, its appearance so solid and dependable that Tate was sure it could withstand another hundred.

As he turned off the car's engine, the front door flew open, and Katherine Marshall stood framed in the doorway, her simple cotton print dress topped by a ruffled apron, her cheeks flushed prettily and her hair—a shade darker than Victoria's—coiled into a neat bun. As Tate and Victoria approached, she positively beamed at them. Tate thought she looked exactly the way a mother should look—comfortable, warm and assured. She looked like a mother who would bake cookies. His own mother had burned the one batch she'd ever tried and hired a cook the same afternoon. She'd told Tate she'd rather take him hang gliding and leave the baking to someone else. Having a mother who wanted to be his pal had given him a rather distorted view of things. He'd always yearned to come home from school to someone a bit more traditional.

“Tate, how wonderful that you could come. Victoria's father and I are so looking forward to getting to know you.”

Tate saw no hidden meaning in the friendly words, but Victoria mumbled, “I warned you,” under her breath. As her mother linked arms with him and drew him into the living room, he shot Victoria a reproachful glance before gazing down at her mother with a smile.

That's all I need, Victoria thought in disgust. A couple of hundred-watt smiles like that and my mother will start buying frames for pictures of the grandchildren. As the evening wore on, her mouth settled into a grim line. Tate was actually enjoying himself and her parents were clearly infatuated. They couldn't seem to believe that she had finally brought home someone who was down-to-earth and seemingly financially stable, someone her father could talk to and her mother could…well, mother.

When Katherine brought out warm apple cobbler topped with mounds of melting vanilla ice cream, Victoria knew for certain that wedding bells were already pealing in her head. Homemade cobbler was her mother's specialty, prepared only when she wanted to use her biggest guns to make a sure kill. The last time she'd baked one the town scrooge had forked over ten thousand dollars to beautify a park. He was still grumbling about Katherine Marshall's sly, underhanded tactics.

Tate caught the dismayed expression on Victoria's face and briefly wondered about it. Then he dismissed it as her father deftly steered the conversation over a fascinating range of topics—from the intrigues of small-town politics to rampant, unrestricted development and poor zoning, from bank failures to the national debt. All were things Tate understood and felt comfortable with. He'd grown up discussing these subjects with his own father. It was both nostalgic and satisfying to find someone older with whom he could share his thoughts again. He'd missed that since his father's death.

As for Mrs. Marshall, she reinforced his earlier impression of her straightforward, brutally honest approach to life. She was clearly a perfectly contented homemaker, a self-assured woman who would never whimper about life's harsh realities or pretend they didn't exist. She'd roll up her sleeves and pitch in to make things better, always with that sparkling sense of humor that made her bright blue eyes, that were so like her daughter's, crinkle with laughter.

Despite Victoria's dire warnings, he found the Marshalls to be exactly the kind of people he most enjoyed. It was Victoria herself who baffled him. How such an unconventional, impractical woman could have turned up on that very sensible family tree was beyond him. Yet though her parents teased her unmercifully about her more unique friends and crazy lifestyle, it was obvious that they doted on and worried about her. It gave him a warm feeling to see this much love, given so freely and unconditionally.

There was one awkward moment, which began when Katherine Marshall asked how he and Victoria had met.

“Well,” he began and shot Victoria a look that cried out for help. He was not used to prevaricating and had no idea what he could say that wouldn't violate his promise to avoid mentioning the audit. She let him sit and squirm uncomfortably under her mother's interested gaze for several horrible seconds.

“It was an accident, Mother,” she said when his nerves had stretched so taut he thought he'd have to blurt out the entire truth or explode.

Mrs. Marshall's eyes filled with concern. “An accident? You didn't wreck your car, did you? I've told you you should get rid of that old rattletrap. It's a menace.”

“My car is not a menace and, anyway, it wasn't that kind of an accident. I'd just chased Lancelot up into a tree and got stuck. Tate came along and rescued me.”

“Oh, my. How romantic,” Mrs. Marshall said with a satisfied sigh, her eyes lighting with pleasure. “And how very fortunate that you happened by, Tate.”

“Yes, that was a bit of luck, wasn't it?” Victoria said dryly. Tate refused to look her in the eye. He was terrified he would laugh and blow their tenuous credibility to smithereens.

Before he did, John Marshall tamped down the tobacco in his pipe with slow deliberation and said quietly, “Tell me, Tate, exactly what do you do for a living?”

“Ummm…I…”

“Tate's in finance,” Victoria offered.

“Make a good living, do you?”

“Dad!”

Tate grinned. “Good enough.”

“And you live in Cincinnati?”

“Yes.”

“Like it there?”

“I've lived there all my life. It's a great city.”

“You intend to stay there, then?”

“Well, yes, I suppose so.”

“What about a family?” Katherine Marshall inquired, plopping another scoop of vanilla ice cream into his bowl and urging him to have a bit more cobbler.

Tate gulped. “I hadn't really thought about it,” he said finally, as Victoria shot him an I-told-you-so look.

“A man can't wait too long to settle down,” John Marshall said with all the subtlety of a rampaging rhino. He was obviously oblivious to Victoria's glare. Tate nodded politely, beginning to see exactly what he was up against. Oddly enough, the prospect of being bullied into a marriage with Victoria didn't terrify him nearly as much as it should have. Actually, the fact that it
didn't
was what scared him to death.

Despite the less than subtle nudging from the Marshalls, Tate found that he was having one of the best times of his life. From the incredible, mouth-watering apple cobbler to the gentle family teasing and intelligent conversation, he felt perfectly at home. Victoria, however, seemed to vacillate between amusement and nervousness. By the end of the evening, nervousness was winning out. The more Tate relaxed, the jumpier Victoria became. Soon he was certain that she'd been hoping they would all mix like oil and water. Then they'd never have to get together again.

When they were finally on the way home, after he'd promised to come back often, he questioned her about her odd attitude.

“You were hoping we'd hate each other, weren't you?”

“Why on earth would I want you to hate my parents?”

“You tell me.”

She shook her head. “You're wrong. I expected you to like them. You're on the exact same wavelength,” she said in a tone that made it sound as though they all were suffering from a similar incurable disease.