Obsession. Lisa Jackson
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I’ll trust you,” she said, the corners of her beautiful mouth relaxing.
He felt a twinge of guilt at deceiving her, but shrugged it off as he opened the door and she swept outside ahead of him. He’d played by her rules long enough. Now it was time she played by his.
* * *
Kaylie was nervous as a cat when, as they walked outside, she discovered a large brown and black shepherd lying on the porch. “Who are you?”
“Man’s best friend. Right, Franklin?” Zane said, whistling as he opened the back door of the Jeep and the dog leaped inside.
“You bring him on all your dates?” she teased.
He flicked her an interested glance. “My chaperone,” he drawled. “Just to keep you in line.”
“Me?” she replied, but grinned as she slid into the passenger side. Maybe this date wouldn’t turn out to be the disaster she’d predicted.
Casting a glance in his direction as he climbed behind the wheel, she realized that he would never change. He’d always be strong, arrogant, determined, stubborn and self-righteous. But funny, she reminded herself. He had been blessed with a sense of humor.
Still, she was uneasy. She’d seen his mouth turn down when she’d quoted one of his favorite lines from an old movie. She’d done it on purpose, to check his reaction. He’d tried to hide his surprise, but she’d noticed the ghost of change in his eyes.
So why hadn’t she refused to get into the Jeep with him?
Kaylie cast her eyes about, not wanting to confront her actions. A part of her was still intrigued with him. And she’d been lonely in the past seven years. She’d missed him far more than she’d ever admit. Yes, she couldn’t handle the way he’d overreacted and tried to treat her like some fragile possession, but she’d missed his smile. She recalled it now with bittersweet poignancy, how that lazy slash of white would gleam against a darkened jaw as she’d awakened in his arms.
Her heart pounded at the memory, and she silently cursed herself for being a nostalgic idiot. So she missed his sexy looks, his playful grin, his presence in her house.
He headed east, leaving the sun to cast a few dying rays over the darkening waters of the Pacific. The sky had turned a dusky shade of lavender, reflected in the restless sea.
Zane drove without saying much, but she could sense him watching her, smell the clean earthy scent of his aftershave. She’d been crazy to agree to this, she decided. She was much too aware of him.
“Why did we leave the city?” she asked, to break the awkward silence stretching between them.
“Because I discovered a place you’ll like.”
“In Kansas?”
His sensual lips twitched. “Not quite.”
“So let me get this straight. You thought, ‘Gee, Lee Johnston’s about to be released from the hospital—this would be a great time to break into Kaylie’s house and take her to dinner in some restaurant in Timbuktu.’”
He grinned. “You’re astounding, Kaylie. The way you read me like a book,” he said sarcastically. “You know, that’s exactly what I thought!”
She rolled her eyes and held her tongue for the rest of the journey.
Two hours later, Kaylie’s stomach rumbled as she stepped out of his Jeep and eyed the restaurant he’d chosen. She’d expected him to take her to one of their old haunts along the waterfront in Carmel where they could eat seafood and laugh, drink a little wine and remember the good times—the few carefree times they’d shared as man and wife. When he’d mentioned the mountains, her interest had been piqued.
This place, this ivy-covered, two-storied house that looked as if it had been built before the turn of the century, wasn’t like Zane at all. Mystified, she walked up the worn steps to a wide plank porch. A few rockers moved with the wind, and leaves in the surrounding maple and ash trees rustled as they turned with the breeze. Quaint, she thought. And so unlike Zane.
She eyed him from beneath her lashes, but his strong features seemed relaxed, his face handsome and rakish, one thatch of dark hair falling over his eyes. He shoved the wayward lock from his forehead, but it fell back again, making him look less than perfect and all the more wonderful.
Get a grip, she reminded herself as they walked into the old house and Zane tied Franklin to a tree near the entrance.
“You sure he won’t scare the guests?” Kaylie asked.
“This ol’ boy? No way,” Zane said, rubbing the dog behind his ears.
Inside, a mâitre d’ escorted them to a small table in what once had been the parlor.
Zane ordered wine for them both, then after a waiter had poured them each a glass of claret, Zane touched his glass to hers. “To old times,” he said.
“And independence,” she replied.
They dined on fresh oysters, grilled scallops, vegetables and crusty warm bread. Zane’s features seemed sharper in the candlelight, his eyes a warmer shade of gray as he poured the last of the bottle into their glasses, then ordered another.
Conversation was difficult. Kaylie talked of work at the station; Zane listened, never contributing. As if in unspoken agreement, they didn’t discuss Lee Johnston.
“So where’d you get the dog?” she asked as he topped off her glass. She was beginning to relax as the wine seeped into her blood.
“He used to work for the police.”
“What happened—they fire him?”
“He retired.”
Kaylie stifled a yawn and tried not to notice the play of candlelight in his hair. “And you ended up with him.”
Zane shrugged. “We get along.”
“Better than we did?” she asked, leaning back in her chair and sipping from her glass.
“Much.”
“He must do just as you say.”
Zane’s teeth flashed in the soft light. “That’s about the size of it.”
Kaylie was caught up in the romantic mood of the old house with its wainscoted walls and flickering sconces. A fire glowed in the grate and no one else was seated in the small room, though there were four other tables near the windows.
“How’d you arrange this?” she asked, finishing her second—or was it her third?—glass of wine. Pinpoints of light reflected against the crystal.
“Arrange what?”
She motioned to the empty room. “The privacy.”
“Oh, connections,” he said offhandedly, and she was reminded again of how powerful he’d become as his security business had taken off and his clientele had expanded to the rich and famous. He’d opened an office that catered to Beverly Hills, another to Hollywood, as well as San Francisco, Portland, Seattle and on and on. In seven years his business had prospered, as if he’d thrown himself body and soul into the company after their divorce.
He refilled her glass. “I thought we should be alone.” “What? No bodyguards? No private investigators?” she teased, then regretted her sarcasm when his eyes darkened.
“I think we should declare a truce.”
“Is that possible for divorced people?” she asked, and watched as he twisted his wineglass in his fingers.
“Mature divorced people.”
“Oh, well, we’re that, aren’t we? And I guess you’re bodyguard enough, right?” She sipped the wine and felt a languid sleepiness run through her blood. Maybe she should slow down on the claret. It was just that