Tempting Fate, page 4
Donovan had spent much of last spring semester on the sidelines, interestedly observing the odd-couple relationship developing between his stepsister, Serena Lawrence —known to most of the world as the "Ice Princess" of professional tennis—and Alex Bedare, former diplomat turned professor. The fact that they had struck sparks off each other from the beginning was obvious. Stil , it was months before Serena had al owed those sparks to develop into a blazing inferno.
She had fought Alex's seduction attempts every inch of the way. Then, once they had become lovers, she had refused to acknowledge that anything permanent could possibly come of a relationship with a man who in earlier eras could only charitably be described as a rake. That reluctance on her part to believe in Alex had almost cost her the man she loved.
The breakup had been explosive, tempers flaring, harsh words exchanged. Donovan had been forced to stand by helplessly, offering whatever comfort he could as he waited for the lead players in the romantic melodrama to come to their senses. Come to their senses they did, reconciling under the silvery slant of London rain. The fol owing day Serena had gone on to score an impressive Wimbledon victory.
That was al it was, he decided. The stormy courtship between his sister and new brother-in-law had simply triggered memories of his own unsuccessful love affair. Donovan felt a great deal better knowing there was a logical reason for the uncharacteristic thoughts of Brooke he had been suffering lately.
"It was good, Brooke," he reminded her gruffly as he framed her face between his palms. "It could be good again."
The pulse at the base of her throat beat strongly as Donovan's thumb grazed it. "It will be good again," he vowed.
Brooke backed away, praying that she would be able to stand unassisted. Her legs felt like jel y and her head was stil fogged with unsatiated desire.
"Your methods won't work these days," she insisted in a voice that she wished desperately was stronger. More assertive. "I'm not going to sleep with you, Donovan. So you may as wel give up on that lobbying idea."
His temper rose, but Donovan control ed it. "At least let me take you to the airport," he said reasonably.
Suspicious of his sudden easygoing attitude, Brooke searched his face for some inkling of his thoughts. Nothing.
"No," she said. Then, hating the weakness apparent in the soft sound, she strengthened her tone as wel as her resolve.
"No."
"Wouldn't you like some company into L.A.?"
"Real y, it's not necessary. Besides, I'm not flying out of LAX; my plane leaves from the Ontario airport. It's only a ten-minute drive from my apartment to the terminal."
"Where are you living?"
"The Cloisters." She grimaced at the thought of her dis-orderly apartment. "Although living is a relative term: surviving would probably describe circumstances better. I've been so busy trying to wade my way through al the proposals, that I stil haven't had time to unpack."
The Cloisters suited her, he thought. Secluded behind private entry wal s, the condominium apartments offered spec-tacular views of the San Bernardino Mountains. While Donovan had never been privileged enough to enter those guarded gates, he had heard rumors of sumptuous marble baths, circular staircases and indoor fountains. Thinking of his own smal , cozy Edwardian home, he was forced, not for the first time, to compare Brooke's background with his own.
The only child of a wealthy bank president and a woman whose family had made a fortune by subdividing practical y the entire San Fernando Val ey, Brooke had been born with the proverbial silver spoon in one hand and a fistful of gold charge cards in the other. Her parents, ecstatic when blessed with a golden-eyed infant in their later years, had never denied Brooke anything, that Donovan could see. He had no doubt that her income from various trust funds was several times his annual salary at the col ege.
Donovan could not even boast an impoverished, colorful past. He came from a solid middle-class background, of which he was the first in a long line of Kincaids to attend col ege, let alone receive a doctoral degree and some measure of international fame.
However, despite his admitted success, there were in-stances—and this was decidedly one of them—that Donovan was reminded al too clearly of those few times he had been a guest at Brooke's family's palatial estate. While her mother would have eaten her Gucci handbags before permitting herself to be rude, Carolyn Stirling had, with a brief glance, a murmured statement, made Donovan wel aware of the fact that he and Brooke came from two entirely different worlds.
Donovan refused to al ow himself to dwel on negative thoughts. "When wil you be back?"
"The day after tomorrow. I only have a few last things to pack. Some books, photo albums, that sort of thing.
Why?"
He shrugged. "Just idle curiosity."
Her sober eyes handed him a warning. "I won't have made up my mind about your project by then, Donovan."
Irritation flared, fierce and uninvited. Donovan shoved his hands into his pockets to keep from shaking her. "I wasn't asking about the project, Brooke."
Something in his tone alerted her to the fact that he was tel ing the truth. She repeated her question. "Then why were you asking?"
He gave her a total y innocent, total y false smile. "Can't a man ask a simple question without getting the third degree?"
Brooke stared at him, intently studying his face once again as she tried to read some secret message in his inscrutable expression.
"I have a plane to catch," she said final y.
"To Sacramento," he agreed. "We'l talk when you get back."
"About work," she warned.
"Of course." He bent his head, pressing his lips against hers for a quick, hard kiss. "Have a safe flight." He brushed his knuckles down her cheek.
"I'l see you Saturday."
Donovan let her get a few feet away before he spoke. "Oh, Brooke?"
She turned slowly, viewing the devils dancing in his green eyes with very real trepidation. "Yes?"
"If al I wanted was to sleep with you for old time's sake, sweetheart, you would have spent this evening sharing my bed instead of cramped in a narrow seat on a plane to Sacramento."
With that he turned, sauntering off in the opposite direction. Brooke remained rooted to the spot, her eyes glued to his back as she pressed her fingertips experimental y against her lips where she could stil feel the warmth generated by his kiss.
THREE
LATE SATURDAY AFTERNOON Donovan was standing in the doorway of Brooke's office, al owing himself the pleasure of observing her undetected. Of al the views Southern California had to offer, he decided that this was undeniably his favorite.
Let the surfers have the crashing waves and sparkling sands of Zuma and Huntington beaches. The movie stars could claim the smog-free air and sprawling estates of Beverly Hil s and Bel Air, while their kiddies lived it up at Disneyland or Knotts Berry Farm. Weekend skiers were welcome to those purple-hazed mountains, which would soon be wearing a winter dusting of snow, just minutes from campus.
Given his choice of al those natural and man-made wonders, Donovan would choose this sight of Brooke, down on her hands and knees, laboriously sanding the wood floor, every time. The denim shorts rode high on her hips, exposing long, smooth legs that were tanned to a hue only shades lighter than the wood she was laboring over.
As desire swel ed up inside him, Donovan knew that he was going to have to make love to Brooke again. It was either that or spend the rest of his life able to think of nothing else.
"You know, they have machines to do that," he said final y.
Her shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly as Brooke looked up to view Donovan leaning lazily against the doorframe. She had been surprised by exactly how much she had missed him during her time in Sacramento. Surprised and disturbed.
She didn't want to like him; she didn't want to feel as if the sun had cut through the layers of smog every time he smiled at her. And dear Lord, she certainly hadn't invited those sensual dreams that had disturbed her sleep ever since experiencing that mind-blinding kiss.
She sat back on her heels, returning her gaze to the floor.
"I know. But they can scratch the wood."
"Why don't you just get a new rug?" Donovan glanced over at the one she had rol ed up and dragged out into the hal way. "Not that there was anything wrong with the old one."
"The old one was brown," she said, as if that explained everything.
"I see," Donovan answered, not seeing anything at al .
But she was looking too enticing to waste time discussing the state of old rugs and weathered floors. The red T-shirt hugged curves that were ful er than he remembered. But every bit as enticing. Her hips, clad in the snug cut-offs, swel ed outward from a slender waist. And those long shapely legs. The fantasies inspired by those legs were probably against the law in at least thirty-seven states.
"You sure don't look like the Director of Appropriations today," he said after the leisurely examination.
Brooke wanted to sink through the parquet flooring as she felt a warm flush color her cheeks. Thirty-three years old and stil blushing. What on earth would he think of her?
"More like the janitor, right?"
"No," he said slowly, decisively, "more like a sexy, young coed I used to know."
"That was a long time ago, Donovan."
He sat down beside her, toying with the long, dark braid hanging down her back. "So you keep tel ing me."
"I'l keep tel ing you until you final y listen to reason,"
Brooke insisted. "What we had was nothing more than a col ege romance. No different from hundreds of others. Thousands."
"You never could lie, Brooke. Your face gives you away every time."
She had tied the thick braid with a piece of scarlet ribbon, leaving a fan of silky chestnut hair that Donovan brushed with a teasing, tantalizing touch over her cheek and down her throat.
"What we had was special."
"I don't remember you taking the time to notice," she argued weakly.
"My fault entirely," he agreed without hesitation. His eyes remained locked on hers as he tugged on the ribbon. A moment later it was lying on the newly sanded floor. "I've been giving the matter a great deal of thought recently."
Brooke told herself that she should insist he stop twining his fingers through the braid as he unwound it from the bottom upward. But she couldn't find the words.
"Oh?" Trying for an air of unconcern, she failed miserably.
"I ignored you." Appearing fascinated with the intricate French braiding, Donovan traced the weaving with his fingertip. "For the chimps."
"You ignored me," Brooke agreed in an attempt to remind her rebel ious body of the fact that she had every reason to hate Donovan Kincaid. So why did she feel as if a live wire was thrumming through her every time he got near her?
Having freed her hair from the braid, Donovan lifted soft clouds of it over her shoulders. "That's better," he murmured.
The heels of his hands brushed against the soft slope of her breasts as he arranged the silken strands to his liking, but if Donovan took notice of Brooke's sharp intake of breath, he failed to mention it.
"I'm not going to make the same mistakes this time, Brooke."
She couldn't—wouldn't—meet his intense gaze. Instead Brooke shot a quick glance at the wal clock hanging above the door. "Just look at the time!" Shaking free of his light touch, she jumped to her feet. "I have to get home."
Donovan rose from the floor as wel . "Why?"
She refused to admit she was running away from him. "I've plans for the evening."
That much was true. She had intended to spend a long, leisurely evening soaking her aching body in a bubble bath.
Then, after indulging herself with a thick, gooey, take-out pizza with everything on it, she had planned to pass the re-mainder of the Saturday night with a horror novel she bought months ago and had yet to find the time to read.
"Have dinner with me instead," he suggested.
Brooke shook her head. "I can't do that."
His grin was beguiling, coaxing acquiescence. "Sure you can. It's easy. Just cal the guy, whoever he is, and tel him something's come up."
The blithe way he suggested she lie to another individual, albeit an imaginary person, just so that she could spend the evening with him reminded Brooke that to Donovan, the world always revolved around his wishes. His plans.
"I won't do that," she said impatiently. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to lock up my office."
Donovan was more than a little disgruntled by her refusal. It wasn't as if he was desperate for her company tonight. In fact, if Brooke had stayed in Sacramento an additional day, he would have spent the evening with Gloria, working on the computer language program he was developing. If he was wil ing to forgo his work, why couldn't she cancel her damn date?
"You're not being fair about this, Brooke," he argued as they left the office. "After al , I've offered to give up my work tonight to take you to dinner.
The least you could do would be to appreciate it."
Brooke shook her head as she locked the door. Then she patted his cheek. "I wouldn't want you to give up your work on my account, Donovan.
Gracious, I'd spend the entire evening feeling guilty."
With that she turned away, walking down the hal way without a backward glance. Despite the fact that a slow, simmering frustration burned deep inside him, Donovan couldn't help noticing that she looked every bit as good in those raggedy cutoffs as she had in her undergraduate days.
His irritation with her behavior was overcome by a sharp jolt of desire. Donovan couldn't remember wanting a woman as badly as he wanted Brooke Stirling at this moment.
Unfortunately—and this was turning out to be a shock—the feeling appeared to be one-sided. He wondered who she was seeing this evening, then decided it didn't matter. Donovan hated the guy, whoever he was. Muttering a low oath, he turned and strode off in the opposite direction, determined to put the frustrating woman out of his mind.
Four hours later, Donovan learned what he had already suspected: forgetting Brooke was easier said than done. His work turned out to be a total wash as his imagination conjured up scenes of Brooke on her date, laughing, dancing, sharing low intimate conversation over a candlelight dinner.
When he began picturing her making slow, passionate love with some faceless rival, his temper exploded and he yel ed at Gloria, which in turn hurt the ultrasensitive goril a's feelings.
"Donovan mean," the synthetic, feminine computer voice announced as Gloria typed the message onto the keyboard in a unique hunt-and-peck fashion. "Donovan bad. Bad devil. Rat."
After a lengthy string of such colorful epithets, she finished with the worst insult in her lexicon. "Ugly al igator,"
the artificial voice accused. Glaring at him furiously, Gloria stuck out her tongue before turning away from the computer keyboard to begin watching television.
"It's just as wel we're cal ing it a night," Donovan muttered, rummaging through a filing cabinet for the bottle of Scotch he had stashed there. "The mood I'm in, any words I teach you would get edited from any reputable scientific journal for obscenity reasons."
He eyed the insults stil blinking on the screen, the green phosphorus letters bright against the black background. "No point in encouraging you, since you're natural y a foul-mouthed woman, anyway."
Donovan found himself wishing that Serena and Alex weren't out of town visiting friends. It would be nice to have someone to talk to about al this.
Fortunately the semester was scheduled to begin in just a few days; Alex would have to return for his classes. Perhaps by then there wouldn't even be a problem to discuss.
Heaving a frustrated sigh, Donovan poured a drink and sat down with the giant ape to watch Baretta in German.
While Donovan struggled with his feelings for Brooke, she was having no better luck ignoring their situation. She had indulged in the luxury of the bath, as wel as the pizza. But as much as she had been looking forward to reading Colin Tiernan's latest blockbuster, Nighthawk, she found she couldn't keep her mind on the story. Her eyes kept drifting to her desk, where Donovan's proposal lay.
Final y giving up, she placed the book in the drawer of her night table. Sitting down at the desk, she pul ed out a scratch pad and began making notations. The replacement television for Gloria was obviously out of the question. Brooke drew a line through the figure Donovan had quoted. Even if she were to approve the purchase, there was no way the board of regents would go along with it.
There had been a steady cutback in federal funding over the years and although the col ege had been successful in luring corporate sponsors into the fold, it was an unpleasant fact that the budget was shrinking day by day. Everyone needed to economize—from the students who found their tuition raised for the third time in three years, to the col ege em-ployees whose salaries had been temporarily frozen, to the professors who, along with the rest of the academic community, would simply have to tighten their belts.
It was Brooke's job to make everyone concerned understand that the days of freewheeling spending were gone; that they al had to make sacrifices. And Gloria, she decided, would have to suffer right along with everyone else.
She tapped her pencil absently on the pad as she continued to read through Donovan's wel -written proposal. Although understanding his desire for a mate for Gloria, enabling the goril a to teach her offspring what she had learned, there were simply no funds available to feed and house another Gorilla gorilla beringei, even if they were able to locate a zoo or primate center wil ing to lend them an adult male.
Besides, Donovan's records showed that he had brought in a male from the Cornel primate center this past spring.
Apparently, according to his sketchy report of the incident, not only had Gloria steadfastly rejected her potential suitor, she had given him a black eye and a broken jaw as wel .
