Night Fever. Diana Palmer
“I could believe that, after yesterday.”
“Your brother is going to be a lost cause if you don’t get him in hand,” he told her. “I came down on him hard for that reason. He needs firm guidance. Most of all, he needs a man’s example. God help you if your father is his hero.”
“I don’t know how Clay feels about Dad,” she said honestly. “He won’t talk to me anymore. He resents me. I wanted to talk to you because I wanted you to understand the situation at home. I thought it might help if you knew something about his background.”
He nibbled the doughnut with strong white teeth and swallowed it down with coffee. “You thought it might soften me, in other words.” His dark eyes pinned hers. “I’m part Indian. There’s no softness in me. Prejudice beat it out a long time ago.”
“You’re a little bit Irish, too,” she said hesitantly. “And your people are well-to-do. Surely, that made it easier.”
“Did it?” His smile was no smile at all. “I was unique, certainly. An oddity. The money made my path a little easier. It didn’t remove the obstacles, or my uncle, who tolerated me because he was sterile and I was the last of the Kilpatricks. God, he hated that. To top it all off, my father never married my mother.”
“Oh, you’re...” She stopped dead and flushed.
“Illegitimate.” He nodded and gave her a cold, mocking smile. “That’s right.” He stared at her, waiting, daring her to say something. When she didn’t, he laughed mirthlessly. “No comment?”
“I wouldn’t dare,” she replied.
He finished his coffee. “We don’t get to pick and choose, and that’s a fact.” He reached out a lean, dark hand devoid of jewelry and gently touched her thin face. “Make sure your brother gets that counseling. I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions about him.”
The unexpected apology from such a man as Kilpatrick brought tears into her eyes. She turned her face away, ashamed to show weakness to him, of all people. But his reaction was immediate and a little shocking.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said curtly. He got her to her feet, purse and all, put the refuse in the appropriate container, and hustled her out of the coffee shop and into one of the elevators standing open and empty.
He closed the doors and started it, then stopped it suddenly between floors. He jerked her completely into his arms, and held her there gently but firmly. “Let go,” he said gruffly at her temple. “You’ve been holding it in ever since the boy was arrested. Let it go. I’ll hold you while you cry.”
Sympathy was something she’d had very little of in her life. There had never been arms to hold her, to comfort her. She’d always done the holding, the giving. Not even her grandfather had realized just how vulnerable she was. But Kilpatrick saw through her mask, as if she wasn’t even wearing one.
Tears tumbled from her eyes, down her cheeks, and she heard his deep voice, murmuring soft words of comfort while his hands smoothed her hair, his arm cradled her against his huge chest. She clung to the lapels of his coat, thinking how odd it was that she should find compassion in such an unlikely place.
He was warm and strong, and it was so nice for once to let someone else take the burden, to be helpless and feminine. She let her body relax into his, let him take her weight, and an odd sensation swept through her. She felt as if her blood had coals of fire in it. Something uncoiled deep in her stomach and stretched, and she felt a tightening in herself that had nothing to do with muscles.
Because it shocked her that she should feel such a sudden and unwanted attraction to this man, she lifted her head and started to move away. But his dark eyes were above hers when she looked up, and he didn’t look away.
Electricity burned between them for one long, exquisite second. She felt as if it had knocked the breath out of her, but if he felt anything similar, it didn’t show in that poker face.
But, in fact, he was shaken, too. The look in her eyes was familiar to him, but it was a new look for her and he knew it. If ever a woman’s innocence could be seen, hers could. She intrigued him, excited him. Odd, when she was so totally different from the hard, sophisticated women he preferred. She was vulnerable and feminine despite her strength. He wanted to take her long hair down and open her blouse and show her how it felt to be a woman in his arms. And that thought was what made him put her gently but firmly away.
“Are you all right now?” he asked quietly.
“Yes. I’m...I’m sorry,” she said unsteadily. She felt his lean hands pushing her from him, and it was like being cut apart suddenly. She wanted to cling. Perhaps it was the novelty, she tried to tell herself. She pushed back the wisps of hair that had escaped her bun, noticing the faint dark stains of his tan overcoat. “I’ve left spots on your coat.”
“They’ll dry. Here.” He pressed a handkerchief into her hands and watched her dry her eyes. He found himself admiring her strength of will, her courage. She had taken on more responsibility than most men ever would, and was bearing up under it with enormous success.
Her face came up finally, and her red eyes searched his broad face. “Thank you.”
He shrugged. “You’re welcome.”
She managed a watery smile. “Shouldn’t we start the elevator up again?”
“I guess so. They’ll think it’s broken and send repair crews along.” He snapped his wrist up and looked at the thin gold watch buried in thick hair over deeply tanned skin. “And I’ve got court in an hour.” He started the elevator up, preoccupied now.
“I’ll bet you’re terrible across a courtroom,” she murmured.
“I get by.” He stopped the elevator at the sixth floor, his eyes faintly kind as he studied her. “Don’t brood. You’ll make wrinkles.”
“On my face, who’d notice?” She sighed. “Thanks again. Have a nice day.”
“I’ll manage.” He pushed the “up” button and was lifting the cigar to his mouth again when the doors swallowed him up. Becky turned and went down the hall in a daze. It was unreal that Kilpatrick had said something nice to her. Perhaps she was still asleep and dreaming it.
And she wasn’t the only one feeling that way. She wore on Kilpatrick all day. He went to court and had to forcibly put her from his mind. God knew how she’d managed to get under his skin so easily. He was thirty-five years old and one bad experience with a woman had encapsulated him in solid ice. His women came and went, but his heart was impregnable, until this plain little spinster with her pale freckled face and wounded hazel eyes had started fencing with him verbally in the elevator. He’d actually come to look forward to their matches, enjoying the way she faintly teased him, the pert way she walked, and the light in her eyes when she laughed.
Amazing that she still could laugh, with the responsibility she carried. She fascinated him. He remembered the feel of her body in his arms while she cried, and a tautness stirred limbs that had banished feeling. Or so he thought.
The one thing he was certain of was that she wouldn’t be a tease. She had a basic honesty and depth of compassion that would prevent her from deliberately trying to kill a man’s pride. He scowled, remembering how Francine had created feverish hungers in his body and then laughed as she withheld herself, and taunted him for his weakness. The rumor was that she’d run away to South America with their law clerk, reneging on their engagement. The truth was that he’d found her in bed with one of her girlfriends, and that was when he had understood her pleasure in tormenting him. She had even admitted that she hated the whole male sex. She wouldn’t have him under any conditions, she’d said. She was only playing him along, enjoying his pain.
He hadn’t known such women existed. Thank God he hadn’t loved her, or the experience might have killed his heart. At any rate, it kept him aloof from women. His pride was lacerated by what she’d done to him. He couldn’t