the baseball cap and the tall redhead. “Christina,” Carey said politely, “Allen will drive you to the motel. I'll be back later.”
Christina scanned Molly with icy eyes, noted the held hand with a black look, and replied in a throaty, pouting tone, “When later?”
“Later, later. I don't know. Have supper with Allen.” Looking significantly at Allen, he added, “Drive carefully.” Allen winked behind Christina's back, purposefully took her arm, and marched her off.
Turning back to Molly, Carey recaptured her other hand, pulled her up to his bare chest and, looking down at her from disturbingly close range, murmured, “You don't know how many times I've thought of you since that summer.”
“Have you really?” It was gauche, she knew, and the words had come out oddly hushed, but only inches away from his body and his piercing gaze, any attempt at sophisticated repartee was lost in an overwhelming sense of awakening. How could he still do this to her after so much time? He made her feel that life was endlessly exciting and intoxicating.
But when he whispered, “Really,” and bent to kiss her, Molly suddenly pictured herself in a vivid freeze-frame image as another adoring female in an endless parade of people who loved him. People just do, Molly thought. They loved the energy, the fascinating, charming vitality.
Although her hands were still tightly held in his warm grasp, she pushed against his chest, taking grudging exception to her mental image and his casual ardor. Torn between ferocious desire and pent-up cavil, she perversely asked, “And how many times have you used that winning turn of phrase, Mr. International Director?”
He stopped, lifting his head when Molly forced him back. Looking quizzically at her, his rugged brows raised, he answered, “Since there hasn't been a ‘that summer' with anyone but you, it's a virgin line. Something wrong?”
“Don't you care to know where I came from or where I'm going or what I've been doing for the last ten years?” Her blue eyes weren't the typical placid blue that blond hair demanded, but a rich, deep cobalt, touched at the moment with small storms like potent gusts off the coast. Too many pictures of Carey with too many magnificent women for too many years fed her testiness.
A tilted half-smile appeared and the tenseness infusing his body diminished. “Sorry, Honeybear. It was such a miracle to see you again, I wasn't going to take any chances of dissolving the mirage with cold, hard questions. I wanted to kiss you to see if you were real or only another creation of my wishful thinking.” His smile widened. “You must be real. Your fiery temper has survived intact, I see. Remind me to keep wine bottles out of your reach.” Her defiance melted, and they both laughed at the memory of the flare-up on a long ago summer night.
“I'll have you know I bear the scar to this day. It's given me lots of mileage over the years. I don't mention that a sweet as honey young woman swung at me with a wine bottle and my hard head broke the blasted glass. Detracts from my macho image to be bested by a mite like you. So, okay, Honeybear, tell me where you've been all this time, and then I'll kiss you. Come on, sit down on the wall here and we'll watch the sun go down. Fill me in.” And he swung her up on the stone wall, his hands warm around her waist. Leaning against the irregular masonry, he listened patiently while Molly, in a deliberately casual tone, gave a rapid and highly edited account of her life to date.
“Divorced,” he said thoughtfully when she finished. “Love to hear it, although having you appear after all these years, I wasn't about to quibble over marital status. I tried to find you once a few years ago, but I didn't know your husband's name, your folks had moved out of town, Linda's parents were gone, too, and I never did know where Georgia lived. I came up against a blank. When women marry, they can drop out of sight pretty easily.”
It warmed Molly's heart that he'd tried. “When was that? When you looked,” she asked.
“I don't know… probably four or five years ago. Life had been pretty hectic for a while; I was vacationing with my Dad and just wanted to see you. Everything's supposed to be progressive nowadays-anyone can be friends-so I thought, married or no, I could drop in and say hello.”
“I wish you had.”
“Since I struck out on that attempt,
Molly scanned his hard body casually braced against the wall next to her, took in the bold, beautiful face, the coarse, sun-streaked hair and she tried to reconcile the familiar image with the international jet-set celebrity director he'd become. She also tried to decipher the meaning of his simple question. “What do you mean,
“Now as ‘from now on.' Ten years is a long time to wait, and I'd rather not wait any longer.”
“You haven't exactly been waiting alone.”
“Well, neither have you.”
“I think your scorecard, at least according to the glossy magazines, totals considerably higher than my one- and-only husband.”
“How long have you been divorced?”
“Two years.”
“And there's been no one else?” A skeptical edge had crept into the bland question.
“No one appealed enough.”
“You fascinate me, Honeybear,” he said teasingly. “You mean it's all for me?”
“
“Cooper. But I use my maiden name now.”
“I wish I'd known Cooper five years ago and now that I do, it doesn't matter, so Ms. Darian, perhaps you'd be willing to share some of your”-his eyes slowly slid down her body-“liberated sensibilities with me. If I appeal of course,” he added, smiling. “Am I going too fast?” His gaze was back on her face and while he spoke with lightness he was impelled by emotions he couldn't control. He couldn't have slowed down if he wished and it required all his self-control to keep from carrying her off to his bed.
Yes, Molly thought, considering this is the first time I've seen you in ten years, and no, because she was honest enough to acknowledge she'd wanted him ten years ago, all the time between and now. “You always were fast,” she said instead, smiling back, thinking Paradise had materialized right here in the gravel parking lot of Ely Lake park.
Carey exhaled the breath he'd been holding. “Back to square one, then, Honeybear. Can you stay with me now?”
“Stay with you?” She knew she was sounding obtuse or retarded or coy, but much as she wished to jettison her entire life on the spur of the moment, she had to consider her daughter who was waiting for her in the Cities, her business which didn't operate without her and, equally important, Carey Fersten's vagrant and capricious life. Including one impermanent wife and possibly ten such invitations to ladies a week.
“Stay, as in walk, talk, eat, play.” He paused, took a small breath. “… Sleep with me. Can you?”
A heated rush tore through her senses, but she couldn't-just like that-like picking up Boston cream pie in a cafeteria line. “Not now,” she said, her ambiguity a blend of logic and wanting. She was careful not to say no.
He frowned. It wasn't the answer he wanted. “When?” he asked, very quietly, not forcing too hard, but wanting to know if there'd be a “when” so he could last till then, only breathe small breaths and last till then.
“I don't know.” Was it because she was afraid of being a number-that old girlfriend, what's her name-who stopped by during filming. She was questioning his sincerity. “I
“Tomorrow then?”
“I'd love to, but…”
“But?” His query was very soft. He wasn't used to refusals.
“Look,” she said, hearing the small touch of resentment in his voice, deciding to be frank, “you walked into my life once and tore it apart. I don't know if I want a repeat performance… If I can handle one.”
“You were the one who married that summer, not me.” His voice was controlled but he'd never completely gotten over his anger.
