A Kiss in the Dark Read online

  “Cajun shrimp,” she answered, feeding him the rest of the slice.

  “We need some beer to go with this. Check the fridge. I think we’ve got some imported stuff in there.”

  Finding a couple of Heinekens, she opened them. They stood together in the kitchen drinking and eating while listening to the bad advice of a bluesy song on the stereo.

  “Napkin,” he requested, polishing off the final slice.

  She handed him one and he wiped his hands. He set it down and pulled her into his arms when a new piece started. “I hope you can lead,” he said, executing a few quick dance steps. “I’m liable to literally dance you off your feet.”

  She hadn’t danced with him since she was fourteen but they fit together perfectly. The song started out fast and jazzy, then turned slow and sensuous. They stood in place, swaying to the music, until the piece ended.

  She’d waited—had longed for this moment forever. She’d almost given up hope that it could happen. And now she found herself exactly where she’d always wanted to be—in Ethan’s arms.

  A low, sexy girlish laugh of pure delight escaped her lips. She was like a little girl who’d gotten Barbie’s Dream House for Christmas.

  He pulled back at the sound of her laugh, his jaw grazing her cheek.

  “Ouch!”

  “What’d I do?”

  “Whisker burn,” she said, rubbing her cheek.

  His fingers sought the hurt, rubbing it gently. “Dawson had to leave early. And I can’t shave myself. Would you mind terribly…?”

  “I don’t know· I’ve never shaved a man before. What if I make a mess of it?”

  “I’ll chance it. You couldn’t be any worse than Dawson. He goes about it as if he were peeling an orange.”

  “Well, if you think−”

  “Come on, let’s give it a try,” he said, leading the way to the bathroom.

  She switched on the light and followed him inside the richly appointed room. The dark wood cabinetry was bathed in a warm glow.

  Surveying the dressing table, she realized he’d set her up. Everything was already laid out and waiting for her: plump white towels, a china mug with soap, and a silver-handled brush and matching razor. It all looked very complicated and intimidating.

  “Don’t you have an electric razor in here somewhere?” Brittany began pulling out drawers to search. No electric razor.

  Ethan stilled her hand. “I get razor burn from electric razors.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’ll teach you,” he said, his voice intimating something more than a simple shave. He sat down on the black leather chair in front of the dressing table, his back to the mirror. “First a towel,” he instructed.

  She reached for the stack of white towels and lifted one to place around his neck. “Don’t men shave before they shower?” she asked, giving away her inexperience to him.

  He didn’t comment on the latter, but answered her question. “Hot water and steam soften my beard. You need to soak a washcloth in warm water to wet my face.”

  She held a washcloth beneath the running water flowing from the gold-plated faucet. Wringing out the cloth, she used it to dampen his face.

  “Okay, now the moisturizer. I think it’s in a silver canister there.”

  “Shaving gel?” she asked, picking up a silver flask and reading the label.

  “That’s it. Put a small amount in your palm and rub it over my face.”

  She did as he requested, trying to keep her fingers from lingering.

  “Now what?” she asked when she was done, wiping her hands on the washcloth and tossing it into the basin.

  “You’ve got to get my face dripping wet. Don’t be neat about it.”

  Using the washcloth, she did as he requested until water splashed onto the towel around his neck.

  “Okay, that’s good. Now lather up the soap in the mug with the shaving brush, then slather it on my face nice and thick until you’ve got my whiskers all coated with the stuff.”

  Brittany added a little water, working the soap in the mug into a billow of lather, then began applying it to his face, careful to cover it evenly. The delicate fragrance of sandalwood scented the air.

  “Okay, take the razor and start at my sideburns, making short strokes in the direction my beard grows,” he told her.

  She picked up the razor, looking at it speculatively. “I don’t know. Are you sure about this? What if I slip and nick you?” she asked, not trusting the steadiness of her hands on him. She was pretending a coolness she wasn’t certain she could carry off.

  “If you nick me, I’ll have to fire you,” he teased. “And then you won’t be able to— Why was it you said you wanted the extra work?”

  “I want to buy a cat,” she explained, starting to wield the razor as he’d instructed while taking care not to let her hand slip. “I’ve read that owning a pet is supposed to relieve stress.”

  “And you’re under a lot of stress?”

  She was at the moment, she thought, rinsing the razor. “There are a lot of variables in my job. In many ways an editor is only as good as her last book. When an author stumbles, so do I. All sorts of things can go wrong with a book, even if your author gives you a good story.”

  He indicated she should shave his cheeks next, then continued questioning her about her job. “What sorts of things can go wrong?”

  “You’re not interested in—”

  “No, I am,” he assured her. “I suppose in a way I can understand, because backing a play carries risks, too.”

  “Well, for instance, the cover can go wrong. It can be a gorgeous cover on its own, but fade into the background when it goes on the shelf in the bookstore. Or it can be the subject of the book that kills it. For example, books dealing with the fine arts traditionally don’t do well for whatever reason. It can even be something as simple as a snowstorm screwing up distribution of the book, dooming its sales.”

  She started to shave his chin when she was finished with his cheeks.

  “No, save the chin and upper lip for last because that’s where my whiskers are the deepest. Do my neck first.” He tilted his head back to allow her access, but it didn’t work with her standing in front of him.

  “Try standing behind me,” he suggested.

  It worked much better, but only if she rested his head on her chest. She wondered if he could hear her accelerated heartbeat. Feeling weak with desire, she finished shaving him quickly.

  “There, all done,” she said, laying the razor on the counter, and wiping away the remaining bits of lather with a towel.

  “Not quite yet. There should be a balm there to finish up with.”

  She found it, then smoothed it on with her fingertips until his skin felt soft as a baby’s bottom.

  “Now, we’re done,” she announced.

  “Tell me something,” he said, pulling her onto his lap. “Do you remember your first kiss?”

  “Everyone remembers their first kiss,” she said, flustered to find herself with her arm around his neck to keep from falling from his lap. She would be sophisticated about this, not act like the giddy fourteen-year-old she was feeling like inside.

  “Show me what it was like,” he coaxed.

  She leaned forward, placing a chaste kiss on his cheek.

  “That’s it?” Clearly it wasn’t what he’d been expecting.

  “That’s it.”

  “How old were you?” he asked, laughing.

  “I was very grown-up. It was at Miss Cissy’s dance recital. I was eight and Ronnie Cresswell was nine. He was very well-mannered—even if he did snicker afterward.

  “How about you?” she was surprised to hear herself ask.

  “You sure you want to hear?”

  She wasn’t but she didn’t say so.

  “Well, as near as I recall, I wasn’t very grown-up. I think I was fifteen. It was in a stable. I wasn’t very well-mannered, but I didn’t snicker aft
erward. And it went something like this….”

  There was no technique. It was all urgent, raw masculinity.

  And it was … he was … irresistible.

  Any defense she might have had against the power of his kiss fell like so many bowling pins in a strike, and with about as much combustive energy.

  Her heart did a freefall.

  When his lips released hers, they moved along her neck, brushing kisses as he whispered, “Do you know what you’ve done for me, Brittany? You’ve made me come to think of myself not as blind, but as blindfold.”

  She swallowed dryly, pulling away from his seductive kisses. “Then you’ve accepted that maybe…”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “I won’t. I can’t accept it until I have no other choice. There’s still a little time—a slight chance that I might see. I have to cling to that. I have to.”

  Brittany tried to slip from his lap, but he held her there. “Uh-uh. You’re not going to leave without telling me a bedtime story.”

  “I’m fresh out of stories. Your turn.”

  “But I can’t read.”

  “You don’t have to. I made up the second story I told you.”

  “I know. I didn’t hear any pages turning.”

  “So quit stalling…” she said nervously.

  “Okay, you’re on,” he agreed, beginning.

  “I’m driving down a dusty Texas road on my way to look at a pony that’s for sale. But I’ve made a wrong turn a long way back. I shoot the gas gauge a nervous glance. It’s on the hurting side of Empty. There is nothing but flatland in sight a mile later when it happens—gurgle, glug. I’m out of gas.

  “I let my rental car with a broken phone coast to the side of the road, and get out to lean against the fender to wait for the cavalry to arrive. Alas, there’s not a horse to be seen.

  “An hour later, I’m hot and thirsty, and the horizon is beginning to stack up with clouds. The only thing coming down the road is a gust of wind, twirling a column of dust like a top.

  “Just when I’m about to adjust to the idea of walking for miles in a pair of new shoes to find help, I see it off in the distance—a rusty red pickup truck, the old-fashioned kind with big, rounded fenders. Its clanking is my only reassurance it isn’t a mirage.

  “The truck slows down as it approaches and comes to a stop alongside my disabled car. It’s not the ranch hand I expect, but a rancher’s daughter who swings open the cab door, hangs on it and asks, ‘Can I give you a hand, mister?’

  “‘I ran out of gas,’ I explain, feeling patently ridiculous.

  “‘Well, climb on in,’ she offers, sliding back behind the wheel of the pickup.

  “Grabbing the suit jacket I’d discarded, I climb in alongside her to be rewarded with hot breath and a moist tongue licking my ear.

  “‘Lizzie, behave,’ she orders the black Lab that had been asleep on the seat. The dog lies back down but keeps grinning at me, or so it seems.

  “‘Where are you heading, mister?’ the girl asks me.

  “‘I was going to see about a pony that’s for sale, but I seem to have gotten lost. Do you know anything about the ranch I’m looking for?’

  “‘Sure do,’ she tells me, and a mile or so down the road she swings the pickup off onto a rutted dirt-and-gravel trail. We ride for a few miles until we come to a clump of trees out in the middle of nowhere. She stops the truck.

  “‘Why are you stopping here?’ I ask as she turns toward me.

  “‘Looks like it’s going to rain,’ she answers, just as fat droplets begin to hit the windshield.

  “‘Looks like you’re right,’ I agree, uncertain what the weather has to do with anything.

  “She then proceeds to prop her feet up on the dashboard, splaying her legs a provocative distance apart. Her jean cutoffs only emphasize their tanned attractiveness. The red high-top sneakers and white slouch socks on her feet accentuate her trim ankles.

  “Her dog has lost interest in me and is asleep on the floor of the pickup.

  “I’m wide-awake as the girl reaches to unbuckle my suit pants.

  “I ask her what’s going on—not that I mind. I just want to be clear about it.

  “She smiles, pleased and confident in her ability to seduce me. And then she says, ‘I’m doing as I promised. I’m going to give you a hand. Unless, of course…’ She hesitates.

  “‘Of course…’ I repeat, waiting for her to lead me.

  “‘Well, it’s just that I love to make love naked in the back of my pickup truck when it rains. It’s so sensual, don’t you think?’

  ‘“Why don’t I tell you in a few minutes?’ I reply.

  “She laughs, unzipping me. Reaching inside my pants to find me, she surrounds me with her fingers, squeezing, encouraging. ‘Mister, I sure hope we’re talking more than a few minutes, or I’ll have to think about letting you walk the rest of the way.’

  “With that, she grabs the blanket covering the seat and hops out of the cab, heading for the back of the pickup. She spreads the blanket out, the denim fringe of her cutoffs framing the curves of her cheeks as she leans against the lowered tailgate.

  “The rain begins to increase in intensity as she turns to me and unbuttons my shirt. I return the favor, then hop out of my pants while she kicks off her cutoffs.

  “She is a vision in nothing but her red canvas high-tops. Smiling with wicked intent, she grabs hold of the only article of clothing I’m still wearing.

  “‘Come here, mister.’ she orders, tugging me toward her by my loosened tie.

  “As I cover her body with mine in the back of the pickup truck, the sky opens up. Water sluices down our bodies as we begin a session of heated, passionate lovemaking.

  “Wet and slippery, our bodies slide against each other. We are locked together intimately. Control slips away. Convention slips away.

  “Your nails dig into my back as the rain continues and you cry out my name.

  “Ignoring your pleas for completion, I continue to do wickedly sensual things to you, torturing you with teasing… brushing… lifting… smoothing… caressing.

  “You plead for harder, pointing your toes and arching your soft pink body against my tanned hard one.

  “I make you coax me until you are squirming and moaning beneath me with your hands on my hips, your head moving from side to side, taut and straining.

  “You’re reduced to making wild little whimpering sounds as I move my mouth to make yours my captive. Sexual hunger claws at you while I deepen the kiss, my mouth silencing your begging, your ragged breathing.

  “And then I fill you, thrusting as we hurl into ecstasy.

  “The rain continues, warm and hard. You laugh as I lie spent beside you, counting the adorable freckles on your nose.”

  8

  BRITTANY SLAPPED her hand to her nose.

  “Wait a minute! How do you know I have freckles?” she demanded. She tried to slip from his lap, but he wasn’t having any of it.

  “I wasn’t talking about you. It was a fantasy, remember? You asked me to make up a story. It was the first thing that came into my mind. It was make-believe, Brittany.”

  “You may have started out using just your imagination, but you really got into it at the end. You went from the euphemistic she to me.”

  She waved her hand in front of his eyes. “You can see, can’t you?” she accused.

  “No. Not a thing. Not a damn thing.”

  “If you can’t see anything, then how do you know I’ve got freckles on my nose?”

  “Have you?” he asked, playing with her, not taking her at all seriously.

  “You know I do.” She took his chin in her hand. “What I want to know is how you came to know about my having freckles.”

  “Dawson told me?” he ventured lamely.

&nbs
p; “Try again.”

  “Okay. You’ve got me dead to rights. I know you have freckles because I remember seeing them.”

  He remembered her! “When? At my coming-out party?”

  “That must have been it.”

  “I don’t understand. Why didn’t you say anything when I applied for the job?”

  “Because it didn’t matter to me if the person I hired to read to me had freckles,” he cajoled with a laugh.

  “But—”

  He silenced her curiosity with a kiss that demonstrated all the technique he’d learned since he’d been fifteen. It was certainly an impressive amount.

  She hadn’t stood a chance. She was melting in his embrace—long before his tongue fought past her inhibitions to slip inside her mouth, its thrust sure and erotic.

  “What—what was that all about?” Brittany asked, when he ended the kiss. She desperately wanted to be more than an amusing diversion.

  “I just wanted to show you I’m an equal-opportunity voyeur. As it happens, I like both my fantasy women and my real women with freckles.”

  “Tricia Edwards didn’t have one freckle,” Brittany muttered, still jealous of the beautiful woman Ethan had almost married.

  The teasing note was gone from his voice at the mention of Tricia’s name. “How do you know so much about Tricia?”

  “I must have seen her with you,” Brittany answered. In truth, Brittany had kept a close eye on Tricia throughout the entire courtship.

  At first she’d tried to imitate Tricia. When it had become patently clear that was an impossible task, she had tried to believe that he would tire of her, come to his senses. The announcement of Tricia and Ethan’s engagement had put the lie to that fantasy.

  Francesca had read the announcement aloud at the breakfast table. Brittany had been eating orange marmalade.

  She hadn’t eaten marmalade since.

  While she’d done her best to hide her shock—which hadn’t been all that difficult, as Francesca was bubbling over with news about a new beau she’d met—Brittany had had to face reality.

  Ethan was going to marry Tricia.

  “Well, you certainly didn’t meet Tricia at our wedding,” Ethan muttered.

  “Were you—”