Page 507 of Summer Heat
But he wasn’t in the kitchen, although all the dishes were neatly stacked on the drain board. He’d even wiped the counters and stove, something Eric had always missed. “Lance?” she called.
No answer. She wandered out through the dining room of the small bungalow and into the living room. And there he was, sprawled in her comfortable, overstuffed recliner, sound asleep. Tamara stopped, putting a hand to her stomach, pierced by his rough, vulnerable beauty.
Yellow light spilled over him from the floor lamp, illuminating the bright streaks in his uncut hair, and catching the faint bristles of beard beginning to show on his jaw after the long day. She followed a finger of light from his high brow, down his straight nose, to the edge of his lower lip. His head was cast sideways, showing the line of his strong brown throat, and the triangle of chest above his shirt. Lamplight plucked a faint scattering of gilded hair on his chest.
He breathed deeply, slowly, one hand on his chest, his long, jean-clad legs flung out over the footrest.
Tamara filled her eyes, letting wonder creep over her. He was the kind of man a woman would m
ake up. Thick hair to run her fingers through, a mobile mouth made for half-cocked grins, the lips shaped for kissing a woman for a long, long time, the strong, hard body made for touching and embracing and making long, lazy love.
Standing in the doorway, Tamara found it far too easy to imagine herself stretched out over that long, lean length, her body pressed into his—
Oh, Valerie! she thought. No wonder you fell so hard!
With a rueful smile, she shook her head at herself. It had been too long since she’d had a lover. Way too long. That was the trouble with sex—you could do without forever as long as you never tasted the fruit. Once tasted, it was always missed.
It was something she’d learned by watching Valerie, actually. And she’d been careful to preserve her innocence until college. Until she met Eric, who had seemed to share her goals and dreams. She’d never regretted either waiting or deciding to at last sample the fruits of the flesh.
Until now. Now it seemed impossible she’d gone four years without making love. Without letting herself even dream of it.
From the couch, she took the blanket, and covered Lance with it. He barely moved. Up close, she could see the etching of weariness around his mouth, the deepening of strain around his eyes. Tamara remembered the strain of her mother’s funeral, and how completely drained she’d felt that night. It would hurt nothing to let him sleep here for an hour or two. She had to study anyway. When she was finished, she would awaken him and send him on his way.
But as she settled at the table, she noticed she sat facing him, so she could watch him. It was bound to make studying statistics a little bit more pleasant, much like playing sonatas to ease the pain of accounting or reading business administration at the park so the sunshine took away the boredom.
A wry grin twisted her mouth as she flipped open the textbook. “You’re a hussy at heart, Flynn,” she said under her breath, and lifted her eyes to the gilded picture of Lance Forrest lying asleep in her chair.
There were worse things, she thought, and applied herself to her studies.
* * *
A faint, faraway ringing yanked Lance from his fathomless, dreamless sleep, and he sat up abruptly, the recliner slamming closed. His arm tangled in a blanket, and his foot was asleep, and—where the hell was he?
He blinked hard, trying to erase the fuzziness on him, and spied a toy car on the floor. Oh, yeah. Tamara’s house. He must have fallen asleep.
He didn’t see her, but the evidence of her was scattered all over the table—notebooks and papers and pencils and textbooks. From the kitchen, he heard her voice, soft and pleasant, like wind in the trees on a summer morning.
With effort, he untangled himself from the blanket and leaned back once again in the chair. The woman was going to think he was a basket case—he’d nearly wept right out there in the yard, and then he’d fallen asleep in her chair.
Not exactly his usual modus operandi.
Somehow, he couldn’t find it in him to care. His limbs felt heavy and thick, and he couldn’t summon the energy to move just yet. It was so comfortable here. Not just in the chair, but in the house.
It was obvious she had little money—the couch had worn places that the blanket had covered, and nothing matched. But there were framed prints on the walls—maybe cut from a calendar of Impressionist art, judging by the matched size and spirit of them. He liked the way she had hung them, not all in a line, but scattered high and low over the whole wall. In one corner was a basket of dried mountain plants, attractively arranged with a branch of aspen coins providing the centerpiece. There were small lamps here and there, creating inviting islands of light. The house even smelled good, like spice and cooking and bubble bath.
It was comfortable. Almost protective.
He’d forgotten how warm a woman could be. He’d forgotten that high country women naturally saw to the feeding and care of any weary town person in her path, as Tamara had tended him tonight. He was almost absurdly grateful.
She came back in the room, not noticing he was awake. She glanced at her watch and sighed. So pretty, he thought blurrily. So feminine and strong all at once. “Hey,” he said. “How did that test go this morning?”
“You’re awake!” She brushed a lock of hair from her face, tugged down her simple T-shirt, crossed her arms. He doubted that she realized how nicely the pose displayed her round, high breasts. Until she noticed him noticing. She dropped her arms, put her hands on her hips, didn’t like that, either, and shifted from foot to foot.
Still sprawled backward in the chair, Lance grinned very slowly. She was flustered. That must mean she liked him a little bit. Women didn’t bother to get flustered around men they didn’t like.
“Must not have done too well, if you won’t even tell me what you got,” he said.
“I flunked.” The words were without rancor, and she inclined her head. “To tell you the truth, I was going to blame you, Mr. Forrest, but I didn’t study the right chapter.”
