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“Oh, Conn.” Her voice was just a whisper, and he felt the touch of her fingertips on his cheek, his temple. Then her arms slipped gently around his neck and she knelt in front of him, holding him tightly, and Conn found himself hugging her ferociously, burying his face in her neck and breathing in the warm, female scent of her as if it were a healing nectar.
“Conn, I’m sorry it didn’t work out, I really am,” she whispered. “I know you’d hoped it would this time. That everything would be perfect.”
Conn smiled ruefully. “I’ll live, darlin’. And I feel like a damned fool, dragging you over here. When I read the papers this morning I figured, hey, I’m cool—it’s over and done with, and it’s what we both wanted. It’s not like it was some big surprise or anything. Then...” He shrugged, then kissed the side of her throat. “Hell, I don’t know. I just sort of crashed, I guess. Don’t ask me why. It’s not as though I loved her or anything.”
“You did once,” Andie said softly, pulling back gently to look at him.
“Did I?” Conn heard the bitterness in his own voice.
“Well, you must have thought you did. Same thing.”
“I’ve been sitting here for hours, trying to remember just what the hell I did feel back then. There must have been something. I mean, a man doesn’t marry a woman without feeling something, right?” He looked at Andie seriously. “It scares me a little sometimes. This is the second time, Andie. I can live with one divorce—when I married Liza, I was still young enough to figure all you needed was spectacular sex to keep you together.”
He managed a fleeting smile, as much at Andie’s expression as at the memories. “But when I married Judith, I thought it was for keeps. I figured I knew what I was doing. That what we had was something that would last.” Another smile, slightly bitter this time. “Three years later she was gone. And I still don’t know what the hell went wrong. It just...faded. I remember waking up one morning and looking at her lying beside me and wishing I’d never even met her.”
“But the sex was spectacular.”
Conn had to grin. “Oh, yeah. The sex was spectacular. Right up to the end.”
Andie’s gaze held his for a fraction of a second too long; then she looked away quickly, coloring very slightly, and stood up. “I’ll, um, make you some breakfast. I hope you put the coffee on like I told you.”
“Yeah.” Conn nodded absently, watching her as she started gathering up the papers scattered around his chair. “Yeah, the coffee’s on.” Remembering, with sudden, unexpected vividness, of what it had been like with her.
One weekend of heaven...that’s how he’d always thought of it. Three days of a kind of closeness he’d never experienced before or after. It was supposed to have been a getaway ski weekend up to Mount Baker. Just the four of them—Andie and her boyfriend, he and Sharon Newcombe.
Then Andie and her boyfriend had split up two days before they were all supposed to leave. Conn had said there was no reason why she shouldn’t still go, considering there was plenty of room in the cabin they’d rented, and Sharon had exploded, shouting something about three being a crowd just before she stormed out, doors slamming.
So he and Andie, both smarting from love gone wrong, had gone by themselves, although neither of them had anticipated the outcome. They’d come together like gasoline and flame and even now, twelve years later, he could feel his body stir slightly with just the memories of it.
It had been a weekend of magic. But then they’d gotten back to the city and college and somehow—he never was sure why—the magic had vanished in the hustle and bustle of everyday life. Sharon had turned up, contrite and apologetic, and it had been Andie’s turn to go storming off in a flurry of door slamming. He’d gotten that all sorted out about the time that college had let out, and Andie had headed down to San Francisco to take a summer job with her brother’s investment firm.
He’d planned to go down after her and talk things out. But he and his college buddy, Bill Soames, started playing around with a new idea they’d had for a prototype computer, and pretty soon the summer was gone. When Andie came back, things seemed stilted and awkward between them. And then, out of the blue, she’d decided to move to New York and they’d all but lost touch with each other for almost a year.
There was a hiss of sparks in the fireplace as a log settled, and Conn blinked, impatiently shaking himself free of the memories
Andie had tossed his divorce papers on the hearth and Conn looked at them dispassionately. Strange to think it was over that easily. Three years of great sex and a few good times, nearly a year of separation while their lawyers hammered out a deal...then a handful of papers and he was single again.
It made him laugh for some reason, although God knows it wasn’t even remotely funny. Still grinning humorlessly, he stood up and stretched until his muscles popped. Andie was nowhere to be seen but he could hear her in the kitchen. Suddenly he was starved. He picked up the bottle of Scotch and capped it tightly, then grabbed the half-empty glass and followed the clatter.
She was taking plates out of the dishwasher and stacking them on the counter. Conn paused by the end of the counter to watch her, enjoying the play of faded, soft denim across the rounded contours of her trim little bottom. That was one thing he didn’t see enough of these days. Hiring Andie to work with him had been smart in a lot of ways, but it also meant that she spent most of her time with him dressed in business garb.
Which was a damned shame, he found himself suddenly thinking. A real damned shame...
He set the glass on the counter, then slipped both arms around her and nuzzled the side of her throat. “You know what I was just thinking?” he purred against her ear.
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“I was just thinking that we could take the day off. The Becktron deal can wait a day or two—if anything, it’ll just make Desmond Beck more agreeable.” Her skin was slightly salty, and Conn ran the tip of his tongue around the lobe of her ear, feeling her give a tiny start. He wondered why he’d never done this before. Hell, it wasn’t as though the idea hadn’t occurred to him now and again. But it just never seemed...well, right, somehow, making a pass at your best friend.
“Connor...” There was a hint of alarm in her voice.
“I have another idea, too,” he murmured, running one hand gently up under her sweater and settling his palm on warm, bare flesh, caressing her gently.
“Conn...” She’d stiffened at the first touch of his hand on her abdomen, as though not entirely believing what he was doing.
“We could go to bed for an hour or two,” he whispered, slipping the fingers of his left hand under the waistband of her jeans while letting his right glide up to lightly touch her breasts through silk and lace. They were warm and full and he remembered how sensitive they’d been those long twelve years ago, how she’d groaned softly when he’d—
“Connor...!” Breathless with surprise, she recoiled back against him.
“God, you feel good,” he growled, filling his hands with the incredible softness and warmth of her. “I’d forgotten how good you feel, Andie.” Nuzzling her throat, he splayed his fingers across her belly and pulled her against him, pressing gently against her, already fully aroused.
“Remember what it was like that weekend up at Mount Baker?” He felt her breath catch very slightly and smiled, running his fingertips along the edge of her bra and hoping she still wore the kind that fastened in front, smiling again when he discovered that she did. “We could have that kind of magic again, Andie. We could—”
“Conn, wh-what are you doing?” Her voice was just a dazed whisper.
“What the hell do you think I’m doing?” he asked with a throaty chuckle. “It’s been a while, but I think it’s called foreplay....”
He thought about what it had been like, making love to Andie that first time, wild and vital and so hungry for each other they’d practically gone up in smoke.
Twelve years later, and he could remember that first long silken slide into heaven as though it had happened no more than an hour ago. Could still hear the soft noise she’d made deep in her throat, the way her body had taken him, welcomed him, loved him as he’d pressed deep, deep...slaking himself in the hot, satin depths of her.
Conn groaned and moved against her. The catch on her bra gave way easily. He caressed her breasts, the nipples hard against his palm, and he could hear her moan very softly as he rubbed them, teased them.
She’d grabbed his wrist and he felt her fingers tighten convulsively. He remembered what it had been like with her twelve years ago, how she’d gasped with pleasure the first time he’d taken one taut nipple into his mouth, sucking it, caressing it with his tongue.
He remembered other things, too...touching her for the very first time, fingers seeking, finding, teasing. The way she’d pressed her thighs together, embarrassed and a little uncertain, until finally, with a soft sigh of raw pleasure, she’d relaxed and had let him ease his hand under the narrow bikini panties she’d been wearing. She’d been fire and honey and hot silken need, and in no time at all she’d arched against his hand, eyes wide with shock and delight.
The knot in his belly tightened, and he moved against her again, pressing himself against her round, denim-clad bottom and feeling his own breath catch. He slipped the metal button on her waistband free and tugged the zipper down impatiently, slipping his hand inside to cup the feminine curve of her belly before sliding down and beneath the band of her panties. “Andie, I want you....” he groaned, moving evocatively against her.
“Connor!” The word was little more than a gasp. “P-please!”
Growling something, he drew his hand from her and turned her in his arms, pressing her back against the dishwasher, one thigh pressing between hers even as he slipped his fingers into her hair. Tipping her face up, he brought his mouth down over hers, tongue sliding deep, seeking hers, finding it, as familiar and welcoming as coming home. She kissed him back, her arms going around his neck, lithe body arching against his....
And then, very suddenly, she wrenched her mouth away and turned her face so he couldn’t kiss her again, planting both hands on his shoulders and pushing him firmly away. “Damn it, Connor, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Kissing you,” he muttered, trying to do it again. “Damn it, Andie, quit turning away and—”
“Stop it!”
She was stronger than he would have guessed and she shoved him back roughly, panting for breath, cheeks flushed, eyes snapping. Giving her head a toss to get her tousled hair out of her eyes, she glared up at him. “Back off!”
“Andie, for the love of—!” Swearing, he took a step back, blood hammering in his temples, so aroused it hurt just to stand there, breathing hard. “What’s wrong? What the hell is—?”
“I am not some vacant pair of hips you can just use when the mood strikes you, mister! If you need to reaffirm your manhood or drown your sorrows or celebrate your newfound bachelor status or whatever the hell it is you’re doing, fine—but not with me!”
“What?” Conn just stared down at her, mind spinning with confusion. “Honey, that’s not what—”
“No!” Mouth tight with fury, she glowered right back up at him, wrenching the gaping fly of her jeans closed, then reaching under her sweater and fastening her bra. “Is that why you called me over here tonight? Because you’re feeling a little sorry for yourself and figure all you need to get over the divorce blues is a good—”
“Don’t even say it,” he growled, raking his fingers through his hair. “Look, I—” Swearing ferociously, he wheeled away and planted his hands on the edge of the counter, letting his head sag, eyes closed. “I’m sorry,” he muttered finally. “Damn it, Andie, I’m sorry. I don’t know what...” He shook his head.
And he didn’t know, he realized glumly. Sure, now and again he’d thought about what it would be like to make love to her again, but it was more out of idle curiosity than any real sense of desire. She was Andie, for crying out loud. His best friend. And a person didn’t hit on his best friend!
“I’m sorry, too,” she said finally, sounding subdued. “It was... Let’s just forget it, okay? It’s five-thirty in the morning, I’m tired, you’re a little drunk....”
Her small hand settled warmly between his shoulder blades, moving in soothing circles. “You’re my best friend, Devlin. That doesn’t mean I won’t punch your lights out if you try something like this again, but let’s not make a big deal out of it, okay?” She leaned close and kissed him lightly on the cheek, her breast pressing against his arm for a fleeting moment. “Go take a shower—a cold shower. I’ll make some breakfast.”
In spite of himself, Conn had to grin. Straightening, he reached out and caught her by the hand as she started to step away. “Why don’t you come with me? Hell, darlin’, it’s been twelve years since we shared a shower. There are worse ways to start a morning.”
“You’re pushing your luck, Devlin,” she replied mildly, planting her outstretched fingers in the middle of his chest and holding him firmly at bay.
He smiled down at her, wondering what he’d ever done to deserve a woman like this in his life. Even at arm’s length, she was the best thing that had ever happened to him. “If I’d had any damn sense at all, I’d have married you eleven years ago instead of Liza,” he said half-seriously.
She hesitated for just a split second, an odd expression crossing her face. Then she smiled carelessly. “And ruin a perfectly good friendship, Devlin? We nearly did that by sleeping together that weekend up at Mount Baker. Remember?”
“Oh, I remember,” he said with a growl.
“And if you remember all of it, we agreed that our friendship was more important than sex. And that—”
“Spectacular sex,” he amended straight-faced. “We did agree it was pretty spectacular sex, Andie.”
“Yes, all right, spectacular sex.” She was trying not to laugh. “But we agreed that good friends are harder to find than lovers, remember. Even good lovers.”
“Great lovers, even,” he agreed blandly.
“Great?” She looked pleasantly surprised. “You really thought I was—?” She caught herself abruptly. Shrugging offhandedly, she stepped past him, avoiding his eyes. “Go take a shower, Devlin.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Grinning, he headed for the kitchen door. “And yeah, you were great. Once we got past all the virginal inhibitions, darlin’, you were—”
“Censor that,” she said quickly, suddenly very busy rummaging through the refrigerator. “Eggs...bread... How about French toast for breakfast?”
“I’m easy.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Feel free to take advantage of it.”
“You wish.”
Sometimes, Conn found himself thinking, glancing at her with an unexpected twinge of wistfulness. Sometimes I do wish, darlin’....
But he couldn’t say it aloud, of course. Not to his best friend.
Two
Staying there—setting the glass-topped rattan table in the big sun room off the kitchen, making French toast, pouring orange juice—was one of the hardest things Andie had ever done.
Every instinct she had was telling her to run. To hide. To shut herself up in her apartment and pull the covers over her head and simply die of mortification.
One touch—that’s all it had taken. One touch and she’d all but melted in his arms like overheated taffy, as pliant and eager as any teenager. Where she’d found the strength to push him away, she’d never know. Because she hadn’t wanted to. All she’d wanted was for him to strip her out of her jeans and ease her down onto the floor and make love to her as though his very life depended on it.
Shoving a handful of tangled hair off her forehead, she took a deep breath and wet her lips, closing her eyes for a calming minute. It was all right. She could handle this.
The secret was to stay cool and simply pretend it had meant nothing. Nothing at all.
Conn wasn’t drunk, but he’d had more to drink than normal. He’d been hurting, vulnerable, off balance—all alien emotions for a man who prided himself on his pragmatic and levelheaded approach to life. She’d been there, warm and female and reassuringly familiar. His best friend, his confidant, the one person who probably knew him better than anyone. What more normal thing to do than reach for her, seeking to put his world right again through the comforting rituals of lovemaking?
Odds were that he wouldn’t even remember the incident in a day or two.
So no harm had been done.
As long as she kept the whole incident in perspective, she reminded herself grimly. As long as she didn’t try to delude herself into believing that Conn, with blinding insight that had eluded him for twelve years, had suddenly recognized that she was the only woman for him.
Feeling more in control, she added a few drops of vanilla and a sprinkle of sugar to the cream and eggs, then started beating them with a wire whisk. It was time, she told herself calmly. In three weeks, she was going to be thirty years old. Too old to still believe in miracles. It was time she shook herself free of Conn once and for all and got on with her life, because she would be damned if she was going to turn into one of those silly calf-eyed women who waits and waits and waits...and then one day wakes up to realize that an entire lifetime has slipped by and her dreams have turned to dust.
The French toast had cooked to a deep golden brown by the time Andie heard the shower go off. A couple of minutes later Conn padded into the kitchen in a waft of soap-scented steam, cleanly shaven and barefoot, dressed in a ragged old pair of denim cutoffs and nothing else. He was still fit and lean, she noticed idly, his shoulders still solid, belly still flat and hard. And he could still make her heart give that silly little leap with just one lazy grin.
Ignoring it, she simply smiled. “You look almost human again. Feel better?”
“Actually, I feel like a damned fool,” he muttered. Walking across to her, he bent down to give her a chaste—and chastened—peck on the cheek. “Sorry. I don’t know what the hell I thought I was doing, grabbing you like that. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
As she knew all too well, Andie thought wearily. “Forget it, Devlin,” she told him easily. “You’re a man. Men do stupid things all the time. It’s what makes you so endearing.” Refusing to think about it, she slid three thick slices of French toast onto a warmed plate and handed it to him. “Eat this. You still look a little rough around the edges.”
“Feel a little rough around the edges.” Grinning, he took the plate and padded into the sun room, raking his fingers through his wet hair. “I still can’t believe I had the brass to haul you out of bed and all the way out here just because I was feeling sorry for myself.”
“You’re allowed,” she replied casually, carrying her own plate across to the table and sitting down. “Most of the time you’re an intelligent, competent businessman with a solid grasp on his life and destiny. I figure you’re entitled to one night of generalized stupidity, all considered. Just don’t make a habit of it.”
Conn winced slightly. “Point taken. Still friends?”
“Forever.” She said it easily, the ritual as old as their friendship.
Conn just nodded, prodding the French toast thoughtfully. He’d been thinking about Andie in the shower—a few salacious thoughts, granted, but it had been more than that. Thinking about how she was always there for him, about how he sometimes just took for granted that all he had to do was shout and she’d be there, calm and collected and in control.
“You, uh...” He looked at her thoughtfully. “You didn’t really have someone with you when I called tonight, did you?”
Andie stared at him, fork halfway to her mouth. “What a question to ask!”
“You would tell me, wouldn’t you? If you were getting serious about someone?”
“It’s the strangest thing....” Andie cocked her head slightly, as though listening to something. “I could swear I hear my mother. Didn’t that just sound like my mother?”
“All right, all right,” he growled. “I know it’s none of my business, but—”
“It is my mother!” She looked around with exaggerated surprise. “I was sure she was in Portland this week.”
“Don’t be a wise guy,” Conn muttered. “I’m dead serious, Andie.” Realizing, with some surprise, that he meant it. “We’ve never kept secrets from each other. I know you and that French banker, André or Albert or whatever his name is, have been seeing a lot of each other lately.”
She leaned back with an exaggerated sigh, crossing her arms. “I presume you mean Alain DeRocher, the French-Canadian investment analyst you introduced me to last year. Yes, we have been seeing each other pretty often, or as often as possible, considering I live on one side of the continent and he lives on the other. And no, he wasn’t with me tonight. Nor was anyone else, for that matter. Happy?”
