Suite Seduction. Leslie Kelly
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fair share of bad dates, too.”
“But I bet you never got sick on your date’s shiny new penny loafers.”
“True,” he conceded. “But if he was enough of a geek to be wearing penny loafers, he deserved it.”
She raised a sardonic brow. “Are you criticizing my taste in men? Implying I date geeks?”
He shook his head and held his hands up, palms out. “No, no, you said he was a blind date, remember? Obviously the friend who set you up doesn’t know you very well!”
She smirked. “My mother set us up.”
He paused, looking at her out of the corner of his eye, silently daring her to go on.
“Okay, okay, so she doesn’t know me very well!”
His expression was triumphant. “Nobody’s mother knows them very well. That’s why mothers love their children when any sane person would have kicked them to the curb years before.”
Ruthie nodded in agreement with his reasoning, then said, “Is yours really a mechanic?”
He nodded ruefully. “She and my father are in the auto repair business back home in North Carolina.”
“Southern boy,” she said as she stuck her fork in the last third of the cake and helped herself to another bite. “I guess that explains the good manners, the handkerchief and all. But no accent?”
“New York eventually wore it away.”
Robert reached out to help himself to more cake, and accidentally tangled his fork with the tines of hers. “Sorry.”
“If we were down to the last bite, you’d have to fork-duel me for it. But I think there’s enough left for both of us,” she said with a huge grin as she disentangled their utensils.
When she truly smiled, she did so with her whole face, not just those beautiful lips. Robert watched her, awed by the transformation genuine amusement brought to her already pretty features. Her eyes sparkled. A pair of adorable dimples turned up in her cheeks. He had forgotten how much of a sucker he’d always been for dimples—had been since his first crush on the freckled, dimpled, toothless Doreen Watson in second grade. Now he was reminded with such sudden, raw joy that he simply didn’t know what to say. He merely smiled back, memorizing her features, as though afraid this entire interlude might be a figment of his imagination brought on by one too many vodka tonics and might disappear at any moment.
From outside, Robert heard a few horns beeping. The flash of a blue strobe from a police car passing by the window spotlighted the far wall of the room. Distracted, he looked around. The kitchen was immaculate, reminding him of his original purpose. He’d completely forgotten why he’d come snooping while he’d talked with Ruthie. Amazing. A woman who could actually make him forget about his job, albeit only for twenty minutes or so.
Ruthie finally broke the comfortable silence that had once again fallen between them. “So, I suppose you like sports.” Her voice held a note of resignation.
He nodded. “You?”
She shook her head mournfully. “Nope.”
“What about music?” he asked, immediately recognizing her bid to see just what they might have in common, other than the cajones to sneak into a private hotel kitchen and raid the dessert cabinet.
Her eyes brightened. “I love country-western!”
He cringed. “My father nearly disowned me when I was nine and told him I hated country and liked New-Orleans-style jazz.”
A gentle smile and a look of tenderness crossed her face. “My father and I used to sing along to Broadway albums when I was growing up. He had a wonderful voice.”
“Had?”
She nodded. “He died when I was in high school.” Her voice broke, and she gave her head a quick shake, then reached for the bottle of champagne.
“So,” Robert said, trying to move past the awkward moment, “what else? How about books?”
He could have predicted her answer before she said it. “Romances. You?”
“Techno-thrillers.”
“I get tired thinking about picking up one of those two-ton hardbacks,” she said with a frown. “Do you think those guys get paid by the word?”
Since he’d sometimes wondered the same thing, he nodded. “Seems possible.” Instead of being depressed at their conflicting personalities and tastes, Robert found himself thoroughly enjoying their banter.
“Kids!” she exclaimed and he almost heard the “aha” she didn’t utter. “Growing up with all those younger brothers, you must love children!”
He gave a vehement shake of his head. “Growing up with all those brothers made me never want to have children.”
Her shoulders sagged. “Really? Maybe you just think you don’t want any.”
He shuddered. “Ruthie, I practically raised my younger brothers while our parents were getting their business off the ground. Snotty noses, diapers, chicken pox, bad dreams, never-ending fistfights. Believe me, I did all the child-rearing I ever want to do before my eighteenth birthday.”
She looked at him, studying his face as if testing his sincerity, then a disappointed frown marred her brow. She studied her own hands, suddenly quiet and pensive. “I can’t remember a time when I didn’t dream about growing up and having lots of children.”
Lots? He couldn’t even fathom the possibility of one. It did seem critically important to her, though. What she wanted for her own future really wasn’t any of his business, he supposed. She was an absolute stranger to him; he might never see her again after this one unusual night. But he couldn’t stop a feeling of regret over their completely discordant dreams for their futures.
“I hope your dream comes true one day, Ruthie.” He hoisted the bottle and held it up for a toast. “To your future babies. May they all be female so you don’t have the nightmare of raising lots of little boys like I did.”
She nodded, grabbed the bottle, and took a liberal sip.
“So, where were we?” he mused. “Ah, yes, what could we possibly we have in common that we can talk about now?”
She squared her shoulders. “What about the weather?”
“I think we’ve moved a little beyond talking about the weather, Ruthie. After all, I already know the details of your sex life, and you saw a condom fall out of my pocket.”
“The details of my nonexistent sex life,” she retorted, “and thank you so much for reminding me!” She rolled her eyes. “For your information, I was talking about the seasons. Are you a summer man or a winter one?”
“Summer. Definitely. Sandy beaches, bright blue sky, waterskiing, deep-sea fishing. Give me ninety and sunny any day.” He had a sudden purely delightful mental image of lying on a beach, sipping a fruity rum concoction, watching Ruthie walk toward him from the water, wearing a tiny bikini that barely covered the full, lush curves of her breasts.
He glanced at her, to see if she’d caught the brainless, besotted expression he felt sure must be on his face.
She looked like she wanted to slug him. “Winter,” she practically snarled. “Nothing compares to snuggling up in your very softest angora sweater, sipping hot chocolate with marshmallows in front of a roaring fireplace at a beautiful mountaintop ski resort.”
Sweater? No, no. That definitely wasn’t part of the fantasy. “Better than lying on a beach, listening to the gentle surf, feeling someone rub oil into the hot skin of your back?” he asked, his voice growing husky as he fantasized aloud.
She sighed. “Only if there’s a gorgeous young waiter dressed in a loincloth bringing me free piña coladas—and Solarcaine by