Page 56 of Tempting as Sin
She smiled. “I know. I finished closing at six-thirty, but I wanted to get in there ahead of the mud. Besides, sometimes I need to garden more than I need to eat. Really? You have white wine? Is it cold?”
“Chilled it just for you. I also happen to have a picnic. Hang on.” He set Chuck’s bed on the porch, where the dog sank gratefully into it with a moan that made Rafe wince. After that, he leaped off the porch without bothering with the stairs and headed for the SUV again, then pulled out the enormous wicker picnic basket and the insulated wine cooler.
“You’re kidding,” Lily said when he came back up. “Really?” She was laughing. “Was that Martin, too? How did he do that?”
“Don’t ask, don’t tell,” Rafe said. “Where do you want it?”
“Oh, if it’s a picnic,” she said, “we should eat it in the swing.”
The porch swing, with its purple cushion and purple-and-yellow flowered throw pillows, was as pretty as the rest of her house. As the rest of her. He said, “Sit down, then, and I’ll make you happy.”
“That’s some invitation,” she said, but she sat.
“Isn’t it?” He unfastened two glasses from their spot in the picnic basket, set them on the table beside his end of the swing, and set about opening the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.
She asked, “What if I’d wanted red?” She was sitting on one hip with her legs tucked under her, looking like a lady, and like a fantasy, too, with those tiny straps and, he’d swear, not much at all underneath her pretty dress. She turned his head all the way around.
“Then,” he said, pouring a glass for each of them and handing hers over, “I’d be all good. I have red, too. Just in case.” He smiled at her. “But not rosé. No white Zinfandel, spendy or not.”
She laughed again, looking so delighted, his heart turned over. She shouldn’t be this easily pleased. That wasn’t right in any possible world. She asked, “You heard that?”
“I did. I’d like you to notice my amazing restraint, waiting for you to say no so I could step in. I won’t tell you how much I wanted you to say it.” He started pulling things out of the basket and inspecting them. This had been a mad idea. Luckily, it was working. “Sliced artisan bread,” he informed her. “If a woman makes her own yoghurt—from her own goat’s milk—and her own muesli, she needs good bread. Fresh local butter, some sort of dodgy-looking wholemeal crackers that are probably flasher than I realize, and tart plum relish. Cheese. Ah—” He inspected it and made a face. “Chai gouda. I don’t know about that one. Sounds a bit odd. I reckon that’s what the relish is for. Smoked salmon from North Idaho, because when I ate with the lady before, she had trout, and she liked it. Cilantro lime chicken salad with avocado salsa. Black-eyed peas salad. That’s a bit weird, too, maybe. Southwest roasted potato salad. Berry watermelon salad. And individual tubs of crème caramelandchocolate mousse. Also, in the magic picnic basket—” He pulled out two china plates, then knives and forks, and set them on his table. “No dishes for you to wash.”
She was laughing. “Rafe.”
“I know. But I didn’t know what you liked. I’m just glad I don’t have to eat it all myself.”
“Martin did not buy any of that at Walmart,” she said, taking a sip of her wine and widening her eyes. “Or this, either. This had to come from Kalispell. We don’t get the good stuff here.”
“Best not to question his methods. He’s been complaining that he doesn’t have enough to do. Martin likes to excel.”
“I could say,” she told him as he sat beside her—not too close, but not exactly hugging the other side of the swing, either—“that this was about Martin. But I think it was all you. Why? You said no. I remember.”
“Maybe because I’ve had time to wonder what the hell I was thinking. Or maybe just that I like your porno store.” He smiled at her huff of outrage, then went on. “I like the way you tease me, too. I liked seeing Bailey in her new clothes today, and hearing that you helped her sew them for herself. I like the way you took charge of this ugly, goofy dog, just because he came your way. I like the way you kiss me, and I like the way you look at me, the way you’re doing right now.” He took his own glass of straw-colored Sauvignon Blanc, glowing in the late evening light, and touched it to hers. “And I like you. Cheers.”
“Rafe…” It was a sigh. “How am I supposed to hate you?”
“You’re not,” he said. “You’re supposed to love me.”
He didn’t realize what he’d said until after he’d said it. If it had been a film, she’d have melted. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a film. He did his best to make a joke of it, because she looked nothing but gobsmacked. “That’s what happens when nobody’s writing your lines, I reckon,” he said. “You end up telling the truth.”
The sun was slanting low over the valley, lighting up the billowing thunderheads like a religious painting. The air was cooling, the breeze freshening, the rumbles of thunder coming closer. Lily should have been cold, except that she couldn’t possibly be cold. Rafe had lost the checked shirt somewhere along the way and was back in black. T-shirt, to be exact. Back to the shifting muscles, too, and those absolutely rock-hard arms. His eyes were the genuine ice blue again tonight, and so intense, she shivered. He looked all the way real, and he felt that way, too.
He put a hand out. Slowly. The backs of his fingers brushed over the inside of her shoulder, then nudged a little bit. Her strap fell down, and she caught her breath.
She was still holding her wine. She couldn’t move. He could, though. His hand moved down. Still slowly. He was watching it now, concentrating on what he was doing. Running the backs of those fingers all the way from her shoulder to the notch at the base of her throat, then up her neck and down again. She shifted. He looked into her eyes. And unbuttoned the top button.
He’d kiss her. Surely.
He didn’t. His hand drifted down, one button after another. And he didn’t unfasten them.
She said, “Rafe…” It was a sigh.
He’d been looking at her, or at his hand, which had made it all the way to her thigh and was nudging her skirt up, one slow inch at a time. Now, he looked into her eyes again. “You want a romance?” he asked. “Because that’s what I want.”
“This is a…” She couldn’t talk. “It’s not—it’s a…” Her hand was shaking. She couldn’t get her breath. His hand had moved further up her thigh, all the way to her hip, and he was holding her there, one finger tracing the line of her thong. Around and back again, and she wanted him to go further.
“What is it, Lily?” he asked her. He took her wine from her, set it on the table, then leaned closer and kissed her neck. Softly again, and she arched her back. That felt…wow.
