The Prodigal Valentine. Karen Templeton
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What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
“You always could see through me, Merce,” he said softly, a rueful grin tugging at that wonderful, wonderful mouth. “Even when we were kids. But this isn’t about something happening nearly as much as…well, I find myself wondering a lot these days how I got to be thirty-five with still no idea how I fit in the grand scheme of things.”
Yep, she knew that feeling. All too well. Only, up until a few minutes ago, she could have sworn she’d left that “Who the hell am I?” phase of her life far behind her. Apparently, she’d been wrong.
Not only because the grinning, cocky, nobody-can-tell-me-nuthin’ dude of yore had morphed into this man with the haunted eyes who’d clearly been knocked around a time or two and, she was guessing, had come out all the stronger, and perhaps wiser, for it. But because, in the time it took to drink a single cup of coffee, whoever this was had turned everything she’d thought she’d known about herself on its head.
On a soft but heartfelt, “Dammit,” Mercy sidestepped the breakfast bar and crossed the small room, where she grabbed Ben’s shoulders and yanked him into a liplock neither of them would ever forget.
Chapter Three
He’d been as powerless to stop their mouths’ colliding as he would have been a meteor falling on his head.
But nothing said he’d had to wrap his arms tight around her and kiss her back, with a good deal of enthusiasm and no small amount of tongue. Or lower her onto that hideous green sofa—except his back, which wouldn’t have taken kindly to bending over like that for longer than a second or so. Damn, she was short. Even so, he could still stop, no sweat, any time he wanted to, still pull away from that warm, wicked mouth and the warm, wicked woman that came with it.
Which eventually he did, if for no other reason than they both needed air, bracing his hands on either side of her shoulders and searching her eyes before once again lowering his mouth to hers, this time going slow, so slow, so mind-druggingly slow, pulling back whenever she tried to cozy up to his tongue, gently nipping her lower lip, her chin, her neck…remembering how it had been between them.
How good.
She made a sound that was both growl and whimper as her long, pale fingernails dug into his arms, as one leg snaked around his waist, trapping him, claiming him, even as his body completely ignored his brain’s strident protests, that this was stupid and wrong and what the hell was he thinking?
Breathing hard, she pushed him slightly away, even as she clutched his shirt. “So, how long are you here again?”
Right.
His heart pounding, Ben waited, silently swearing, for the testosterone haze to clear. Then he pushed himself up, and away, walking back into the kitchen to get his coat.
“Four weeks,” he said, flatly. Because damned if he was going to hold out the same bone to Mercy he never should have to his family. Because he had no idea what his plans were. What came next. “Maybe six.”
She sat up, her hair as knotted as her forehead, and need and regret and a whole mess of pointless, inappropriate feelings got all tangled up in his head. He’d missed that bizarre mixture of vulnerability and toughness that was Mercedes Zamora. Missed it way too much to risk screwing things up now.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I think it’s called coming to my senses.”
“Uh-huh.” Laughing, she shoved her hair out her face with both hands. Her swollen lips canted in a crooked smile, she slumped against the cushions, propping one foot on the brightly painted wooden trunk she used for a coffee table. The shiny red walls made the air seem molten, flooding his consciousness with possibilities he had no business considering. “And just what do you think,” she said, “the odds are of our keeping our hands off each other while you’re here?”
“That’s not the point.” His hands shot up by his shoulders. “I can’t do this, Mercy.”
“Yeah? Could’ve fooled me.”
“No. I mean, I can’t do this again. Mess around. With you.”
“Because…?”
“Because it wouldn’t be right.”
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t right the first time. Don’t recall that stopping us.”
He squeezed shut his eyes against the onslaught of memories. “God, Merce,” he said, opening them again, “what is it about you that makes me so hot my brain shorts out?”
She shrugged, then grabbed a bright blue throw pillow, hugging it to her, looking uncannily like a very grown-up version of their niece. “I’m easy?”
This time, he laughed out loud. “Oh, babe, one thing you’re not is easy.”
“Fun, then. And by the way, that thing where you said I made you hot?” She gave him a thumbs up.
“Like men don’t say that to you all the time.”
“Ooh, somebody’s just racking up the brownie points right and left today.” Two heartbeats later she stood in front of him again, her thumbs hooked in his belt loop, tugging him close. “No, really, that’s a very sweet thing to say, considering I’m not exactly the nubile young thing I used to be. But what other men might or might not say to me isn’t the point. The point is…” Her gaze never leaving his, she let go to skim a finger-nail down his chest, smiling when he involuntarily flinched. “The point is, it’s been a long, long time since anyone made me hot enough to short out my brain, too.”
“Oh, yeah? How long?”
The fingernail slid underneath the front of his shirt, gently scraping across his skin. “Guess.”
He pulled away.
“Would it put your mind at ease,” she said behind him, “to know I’m not looking for the same things I was ten years ago?” When he turned, she added, “Not with you, not with anybody else. I’m not looking for forever, Ben.” Her mouth stretched into an almost-smile. “Not anymore.”
He frowned. “You don’t want marriage? Kids?”
She walked over to the same photos he’d been looking at earlier, straightening out the one he’d apparently not put back correctly. “It’s like when you’re a teenager, and you just know if you don’t get that album, or dress, or pair of shoes, you’ll expire. Then one day you realize you never did get whatever it was you thought you couldn’t live without, and not only did you survive, you don’t miss it, either.”
And clearly she’d forgotten just how well he’d always been able to see through her, too. Her reluctance to make eye contact was a dead giveaway that she was skirting the truth. But this wasn’t the time to call her on it, especially since he was hardly in a place where he could be entirely truthful with her, either.
So all he said was, “You’re one weird chick, Mercy,” and she laughed.
“Not exactly breaking news,” she said, facing him again. “Look, whether we should have let things get out of hand or not back then, I can’t say. But I’ve never regretted it. Have you? No, wait,” she said, holding up one hand. “Maybe I don’t want to know the answer to that.”
Ben realized he was grinding his teeth to keep from going to her. “Not hardly,” he said, and she smiled.
“Well, then. Ben, I knew from the moment you came home after the army that you’d never stick around. Yeah, I was supremely annoyed that you took off without saying anything, but I always knew you’d leave.” She did that thing where she planted her palms on her butt, and Ben’s mouth went dry. “Just like I know you’ll leave this time. But while you’re here, we could either drive ourselves nuts pretending we’re not interested, or we could enjoy each other.” Her shoulders bumped. “Your call.” When he shook his head,