Every Breath You Take by Judith McNaught
“And that was the end of it?”
She laughed and shook her head. “Unfortunately, no.”
Eager to know what happened, Mitchell tried to guess. “You finally managed to sing louder and you were bad at it?” His smile faded as he realized how cruel a room full of drunks might have been to a child in those circumstances, but Kate shook her head no, and said with mock affront, “I like my ending to the story better than yours.”
“Then what’s your ending?”
“Actually, once I finally found my voice, I was okay. Good enough, anyway, that everyone got quiet while I sang, and they stayed quiet for a few moments after I finished, and then the clapping started.”
“A lot of clapping?”
“Lots of clapping. I naturally took that to be encouragement, so I sang another song for them—something more uplifting that I felt would also demonstrate my mastery of the Irish brogue. While I sang that one, someone gave me a green leprechaun’s hat and a fake shillelagh. And that,” she finished as she started to laugh helplessly, “is when my father walked in. Oh, my God …”
“He was upset,” Mitchell speculated, thinking her father shouldn’t have been all that upset, since she was obviously giving quite an excellent performance.
“He was a little upset,” she confirmed, laughing harder. “You see, by the time he arrived, I was no longer standing on a chair, I was standing on the bar—so everyone could see me. I was wearing my green hat, strutting with my fake shillelagh, and singing a rousing rendition of ‘Come All Ye Tramps and Hawkers’ at the top of my lungs. In case you haven’t guessed, a few of the lyrics are a little bawdy, and I was right in the middle of that part when my father’s face appeared in front of mine.”
“What happened?”
“My voice dried up in mid-word.”
“What did your father do?”
“He whisked me off the bar, and the next day he asked my uncle to use his influence to get me into St. Michael’s immediately so the nuns there could … um … have a hand in my upbringing. Until then I’d been going to the public school because it was much closer, and taking catechism classes at St. Mike’s on Saturdays.”
Lifting his wineglass to his lips, Mitchell said, “And that ended your singing career?”
“Pretty much. From then on, my singing was limited to the church choir.”
At the word choir, Mitchell choked on his wine. “Thank God the nuns didn’t lure you into their convent and turn you into one of them,” he said aloud, without actually meaning to express the thought.
She chuckled. “Lure me into their convent? They wouldn’t have let me in if I begged them to! There wasn’t a rule that I didn’t try to bend or twist, and I always, always got caught, just like I got caught singing on the bar by my father. I spent the next years staying after school for one offense or another, and I practically wore out the school’s chalkboards writing things like ‘I will obey the school rules’ and ‘I will not be disrespectful’ one hundred times each. The nuns would have despaired of me completely if I hadn’t sounded so ‘angelic’ when I sang in the choir.”
Mitchell was still struggling to associate the image of an angelic choir girl with the alluring redhead sitting across from him when she added lightly, “Actually, it was probably my uncle’s influence and not my singing ability that kept me from being expelled from the fourth grade.”
“Your uncle contributed a lot of money to the church?”
“No, he contributed a lot of his time. My uncle was the parish priest.”
Mitchell stared at her in comic horror.
Tipping her head to the side, Kate studied his expression. “You look dismayed about that.”
“I’m less dismayed than I’d be if you told me you’re a nun.”
“Why would you be dismayed if I were a nun?”
The answer should have been obvious. Since it wasn’t, Mitchell decided it needed to be. He let his gaze drift purposefully to her inviting full lips, her breasts, then back up to her eyes. “Why do you suppose, Kate?”
His meaning was inescapable, and Kate felt a sensual jolt that was centralized in the pit of her stomach, then streaked like hot lightning down her legs to the tips of her toes. Her body’s reaction was so strong and so unexpected that she choked back a nervous laugh and stood up. Trying to look composed and amused, she said sternly, “Are you always so blunt?”
“I want to be sure we’re on the same page.”
“I’m not sure we’re even in the same library,” Kate said, nervously raking her hair back off her forehead. His gaze shifted from her face to her hand and then drifted admiringly over her hair in a way that was so flattering and so seductive that her hand stilled and she felt a flush heat her cheeks.
He noticed that, too, and smiled. “I think we are.”
Trying to dodge the issue entirely, Kate gave him a look of tolerant amusement. “You’re certainly sure of yourself.”
“Not necessarily,” he replied imperturbably. “I may simply have deluded myself into thinking you’re almost as attracted to me as I am to you. If so, I’m guilty of wishful thinking, not overconfidence.”
As if he hadn’t already wreaked enough havoc on her, he lifted his brows and said, “Those are the possibilities. Take your choice.”
You’re on the wrong page … we’re not even in the same library … you’re deluding yourself. That’s all she needed to say, Kate realized, but with his piercing blue eyes and his knowing smile leveled on her, she wasn’t certain she could be convincing, not when she wasn’t completely sure herself anymore. Trying to wriggle out of a perilous position, she ignored his instruction to make a choice and laughingly said, “I hate multiple-choice questions. They’re so … limiting.” Before he could say another word or lure her into another trap—or onto his lap—Kate said hastily, “I want to check on Max and get some more ice for us. Please go on with your meal.” With that, she turned and fled into the suite.
Instead of stopping at the ice bucket, Kate walked straight into the bathroom, flipped on the lights, and closed the door. Bracing her palms on the vanity’s intricate tiles, she let her head fall forward and drew a long, steadying breath, trying to recover her equilibrium. But what she thought about was how it would feel to be kissed by Mitchell and held in his arms.
Frustrated with the direction of her thoughts, Kate lifted her head and scowled at herself in the mirror. How could she even contemplate a brief, meaningless sexual liaison with a perfect stranger tonight when she’d never done anything like that before? The answer was obvious: The stranger waiting for her on the terrace was like a fantasy … he was witty, charming, urbane, thoughtful, kind, and—oh, yes—breathtakingly handsome and too sexy. Even the setting was idyllic—they were on a tropical island, dining in the moonlight, surrounded with the heady fragrance of frangipani blossoms and the stirring beat of steel drums playing calypso music on the beach. The timing was flawless, too, Kate realized, because she was about to end her long relationship with Evan.
All those things were nudging her straight into Mitchell Wyatt’s arms, tempting her to make what would probably be a bad decision she’d regret afterward. She’d never had a casual, one-night fling, not even in college with boys she knew. If she had one now, if she didn’t get a tight rein on herself, her pride and self-respect would be in tatters tomorrow.
Straightening, Kate reconsidered. She was a grown woman, and she might not feel that way tomorrow. She did know that if she decided not to go to bed with him, she’d probably end up wondering for months what it would have been like.
Helplessly, Kate decided not to decide. She reached for the light switch on the wall beside the telephone. The red message light flashed imperatively, insistently, and whether from guilt or caution, she suddenly felt as if she needed to find out what Evan had called to tell her. She lifted the receiver and pressed the Message button on the phone.
“You have one unheard voice mail message,” the recording said, and a moment later, she heard
Kate had been “counting on it” for three days already. She hung up the phone.
Chapter Nine
IN THE LIVING ROOM, SHE PAUSED TO CHECK ON THE sleeping dog. Bending down, she touched Max’s nose. It felt moist and cooler than earlier, and his breathing was even. Petting his head, she said softly, “How are you feeling, Max?”
To her delighted surprise, he opened his eyes a little and gave his tail a feeble, answering wag.
“You’re going to be just fine,” she whispered, scratching his ears. “If you happen to get your strength back in the next few minutes, and if you’re a good watchdog, feel free to come outside on the terrace. I need some watching tonight, because I’m tempted to do something really stupid. Or maybe not so stupid.”
She felt a strange prickling sensation on the back of her neck and looked over her shoulder. Mitchell was watching her.
“How is he?” he asked.
Kate’s pulse edged up a notch. “He’s better,” she said, standing up. “I’ll be right there as soon as I wash this flea powder off.”
In the bathroom, Kate quickly washed her hands. As she passed through the living room, she saw the liquor cabinet, remembered the ice bucket she’d used as an excuse to get away for a couple of minutes, and she picked it up. For good measure, she swept up a bottle of brandy, too.
“I come bearing gifts,” she joked, putting the ice bucket and brandy on the small table with the wine. “Would you like more wine?”
“I poured some for both of us while I was waiting for you.”
Kate glanced at his plate and realized he hadn’t touched his food since she left and had let it grow cold rather than eat without her. On top of everything else, the man had impeccable manners. Trying to atone for being gone so long, she picked up her fork so that he would pick up his, and she let him choose the topics and conversational pace. To her relief—and just a tiny bit of disappointment—he kept everything impersonal after that, chatting easily with her about the hotel and the climate, and telling her an amusing story about two couples who rented a sailboat for three hours in St. Maarten and were lost for three days.
At the end of ten minutes, the only significant thing Kate had learned about him was that he excelled at the art of entertaining small talk.
The musicians had either finished playing for the night or taken a break, but an occasional burst of cheerful laughter from the beach meant hotel guests were still enjoying themselves. Kate gazed into the gardens on her right, listening to the surf tumbling rhythmically onto the shore, while she contemplated ways to get him to talk about himself without appearing to pry. She was more than just curious about him; she felt a compulsive need to know and understand him. Despite his veneer of relaxed charm and indulgent affability, Kate had the growing feeling that Mitchell Wyatt was a very complex man. There was something about his unwillingness to talk about himself that struck her as guarded and detached. He obviously had no qualms about sexual intimacy, but she was beginning to wonder if he was accessible on an emotional level to anyone—specifically, her. With an inner sigh, she chided herself for thinking— and feeling—like an infatuated, overeager twelve-year-old who couldn’t wait to find out everything she could about the object of her infatuation.
Mitchell picked up his wineglass and leaned back in his chair, content for the moment with a view of her pretty profile and a tantalizing glimpse of that romantic mouth of hers. A smile tugged at his lips as he imagined her as a seven-year-old with a riotous mop of long, curly red hair, draping herself across a kitchen table, pretending a broom handle was a microphone.
He tried to imagine her in a Catholic school uniform—probably a white blouse and plaid jumper with white socks and brown shoes, he decided. When he imagined her leaning up on her toes to write “I will not be disrespectful” one hundred times on the chalkboard, the corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement. The nuns thought she sounded like an angel when she sang in the choir, he remembered, and a new image of her instantly presented itself—that of a little girl in a long choir robe with her huge green eyes lifted heavenward as she held a songbook in her hands.
Mitchell was not a complete stranger to Catholic church choirs. In Italy, he’d lived with the Callioroso family until he was five and left to attend his first boarding school. Shortly before he was to leave, Sergio Callioroso and his wife realized Mitchell might never have been baptized, and since they were devout Catholics, they chose that religion for him. Mitchell actually remembered the July day he was baptized, because the little village church had been sweltering, and Rosalie Callioroso had starched and ironed his white shirt until it was as stiff as plasterboard. To add to his discomfort, the old priest had chosen the sacrament of baptism as the subject for an endless sermon, and as he droned on and on, all Mitchell could think about was how good it was going to feel to have a little cool water poured over his head, the way Rosalie explained it would happen. But when the time came, the water wasn’t cool, it was lukewarm. So was the effect of the ceremony on him.
Being baptized as a Catholic didn’t make him feel holy or pious; it didn’t even instill the slightest partiality for Catholicism in him. At all of the boarding schools he attended afterward, church attendance was mandatory, so as soon as he ascertained which religious services were the shortest at that particular school, Mitchell immediately decided to “convert” himself to that religion. When he was fourteen and the only available rabbi became too ill to conduct services for the few Jewish boys at Mitchell’s school, he promptly announced his devout desire to convert to Judaism, and thus avoided attending any religious services whatsoever for nearly half a year.
Somehow, Kate had flourished despite the stifling parochial atmosphere she was raised in. He took another swallow of his wine and marveled at how natural and unaffected she was despite having a face and figure that most women would envy. Mitchell had enjoyed the company of many glamorous, clever women, and he’d known a number of plainer women who were delightfully funny and intelligent, and he enjoyed their company, too. But Kate Donovan was the first woman he’d ever known who possessed an abundance of all their best traits, along with an amazingly soft heart and a trace of amusing primness. The package was damned near irresistible—so long as she didn’t carry that parochial-school primness too far tonight.
She hadn’t mentioned her mother or the existence of siblings, and Mitchell wondered about both those things, but he didn’t intend to ask her. He knew if he questioned her further about her family, she’d expect to question him about his. And although he was prepared to indulge her with almost anything in order to get her into that king-size bed, he was not willing to gratify anyone’s curiosity about his childhood or his family.
She was staring absently at the border of trees and shrubs at the edge of the garden—probably thinking up a list of questions for him, Mitchell presumed wryly—when she stiffened suddenly and leaned forward. “Did you see that?”
“See what?” Mitchell asked, already half out of his chair.
“Something moved in the trees, and I saw something shiny—a reflection in the moonlight, just for a second.”
Shaking his head at the outlandish reaction of a born-and-bred city girl to the presence of a harmless nocturnal animal, Mitchell decided to stand up instead of sitting back down. “A cat or dog,” he assured her, walking around to her side of the table. “Their eyes gleam when light touches them at night.”
“Then this cat or dog was close to six feet tall.”
“Because it’s in a tree,” Mitchell reasoned. When she continued to stare dubiously at the trees behind him, he added, “Don?
Kate decided he was right about the animal being in a tree, and she fell into his joking mood. “Where’s your sense of chivalry?” she chided.
His deep voice acquired a deliberately meaningful note. “My chivalry expires when dessert is finished.”
He was standing so close that the legs of his tan trousers were touching her knees, and she had to tip her head way back to talk to him, but she did her best to appear amused and blasé despite her physical disadvantage. “We didn’t have dessert,” she pointed out.
“Let’s have it now,” he said with quiet implacability, and held out his hand.
Kate’s heart slammed into her ribs. In slow motion, her hand reached toward his, her fingers sliding into his warm handclasp. He held out his other hand, and when she took it she felt herself drawn upward. His right arm slid around her back, forcing her breasts into contact with a male chest like a wall of rock, and as he stepped farther away from the table, his left hand clasped her right, tucking it against his chest. Expecting a kiss, Kate started to tip her head back, but he stepped sideways and turned her slightly to the left. An instant before she lost her balance and tripped on his feet, Kate realized the band at the beach was playing “The Girl from Ipanema” and he wasn’t trying to kiss her, he was trying to dance with her. The operative word was trying, she realized, stifling a paroxysm of embarrassed giggles, because she had to take two quick, awkward steps sideways in order to stay off his feet and two more forward steps to catch up with the rhythm.
“How’s it going?” he joked.