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“He can eat trout by himself,” her mother said sagely. “It’s also interesting that Mr. Kemp, who never advertises his political affiliations, suddenly turned up at a campaign meeting.”
“He likes Mr. Ballenger.”
Mrs. Hardy pursed her lips. “I think somebody told him you were going to the meeting with Curt Collins.”
She gasped. “Really?”
“Sometimes a man doesn’t appreciate what he’s got until some other man wants it. Or he thinks another man wants it.” Mrs. Hardy’s eyes twinkled. “We’ll see, won’t we, dear?”
Violet colored prettily and suggested a television program.
She didn’t sleep. All night long, she saw Blake Kemp’s eyes drilling into her own, she heard his voice, felt the touch of his fingers on her face. She tried on everything in her closet the next morning before she finally decided on a nice ankle-length sky-blue knit jumper with a white blouse under it and her embroidered denim jacket over it. She left her hair long.
“You look fine,” Mrs. Hardy said from her bed when Violet went in to say goodbye.
“Are you sure you feel all right?” Violet worried.
“I’m just going to have a lazy Sunday,” the older woman replied, smiling. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”
“All right. But if you need me…”
“The phone’s right here, darling.” Mrs. Hardy indicated it on the bedside table. “Now go and have a good time. I won’t expect my trout anytime soon, by the way, and I’ve already had my breakfast.”
“I’ll bring you back something nice,” Violet promised.
“Drive carefully.”
Violet kissed her. “Always!”
She stopped on the front porch and looked down at her black loafers, worn with knee-high hose. She grimaced, because one of them was scuffed. But, she reasoned, Kemp was going to be more interested in the rest of her than in her shoes. She straightened her purse’s shoulder strap over her shoulder and walked resolutely to her old but reliable car.
Kemp was on the front porch of his house when she drove up. It was a Victorian, with gingerbread patterned woodwork and a real turret room. The whole thing was painted white, brilliant and new-looking, and there was a porch swing and rocking chairs on the long, wide front porch. There were bird feeders everywhere. In the flower gardens flanking the porch, seeds were sprouting and rosebushes were putting out buds.
Violet took her purse and locked the car involuntarily before she pocketed her car key and walked up the steps.
“You like birds!” she exclaimed.
He laughed. He was dressed casually, as she was, in khaki slacks and a blue knit designer shirt darker than the shade of his eyes behind the metal rims of his glasses.
“Yes, I like birds. But so do Mee and Yow, so I have to make sure they’re both inside before I fill the feeders,” he said on a chuckle.
“I have bird feeders at our place, too,” Violet replied shyly. “I especially like the little birds, like the wrens and titmice.”
“I prefer cardinals and blue jays.”
“They’re still birds,” Violet said on a laugh.
He felt as if his feet were off the floor as he looked at her. Smiles transformed her oval face, made it bright and radiant—almost beautiful.
“Do you hire a gardener, or do you work in the yard yourself?” she asked, enthusiastic about the mass of flowering shrubs around the front yard.
“I do it,” he replied. “I need to unwind from time to time.”
“Yes, gardening is good for stress,” she admitted. “I go through a lot of it myself. But I plant vegetables in our little garden, and I can or freeze them for the winter.” She stopped suddenly, embarrassed, because the garden was a necessity for Violet and her mother, who had to budget furiously just to make ends meet. She doubted seriously if Kemp had ever budgeted in his life.
“I don’t grow vegetables,” he confessed. “Unless you count catnip, for the cats, and some herbs. I enjoy cooking.”
“Me, too,” she said. “Mama can do it, but I don’t like to let her. She favors cast iron cookware, and it’s heavy.”
“She shouldn’t be lifting it,” he agreed. “I hope you’re hungry.”
She smiled. “I didn’t even eat breakfast.”
He smiled back. “Come in, then. It’s all ready.”
He opened the front door and let her walk in. There was a long hall with an elephant umbrella stand and a coatrack, with rooms opening off it on either side.
“Down the hall, to the left,” he directed as he closed the front door.
The hall was painted a pale blue, with a chair rail in a darker shade, and wallpaper up to the crown. There was a pale blue carpet as well.
“You’re probably thinking that it’s hard to keep clean,” Kemp remarked as he followed behind her. “And you’re right. I have a cleaning crew come in to steam it frequently.”
“I love the color,” she remarked. “It reminds me of the ocean.”
He laughed out loud. “It’s the color of Yow’s eyes,” he added. “And she knows it. She loves to sprawl on the carpet. Mee prefers the couch or my bed.”
Violet caught her breath as she walked into the formal dining room. There was a cherry wood table, already set with linen and crystal and china, and beyond it was a kitchen that would have been any cook’s dream. There was a tile floor, modern appliances, a huge combination sink, and a counter big enough to use for dressing half a steer. Over the sink was a large window overlooking the pasture and forest behind the house.
“I’ll bet you enjoy working in here,” she remarked.
“I do. I like enough space to move in. Cramped kitchens are the very devil.”
“Indeed they are, and I could write you a book on them,” Violet confessed. “I bump into the refrigerator or the stove every time I turn around at home.”
“What would you like to drink?” he asked, opening the refrigerator. “I’ve got soft drinks, iced tea, or coffee.”
“I love coffee, if it isn’t too much trouble.”
He grinned at her. “I always have a pot warming,” he said.
He got down two china cups and saucers and poured coffee into them. “Cream and sugar on the table.”
He carried them to the places, which were already set, amid platters of fish, vegetables, fresh rolls and even a cake.
“This looks wonderful!” she exclaimed.
“I counted on your being punctual,” he said with a glance. “You always are.”
He seated her, and then himself.
“I like to make a good impression,” she told him.
He chuckled. “Help yourself.”
She looked around curiously as she helped herself to trout and rolls and a potato casserole that smelled delicious. “Where are the cats?”
“They’re shy around people they don’t know,” he said nonchalantly. “They’ll show up when I cut the cake. They beg for cake.”
“You’re kidding!” she exclaimed.
He laughed. “I’m not. You’ll see.”
They spoke about the upcoming election and the local political gossip during the meal. Violet was impressed with his culinary skills. He was an accomplished cook.
“Have you always been able to knock out a meal?” she wondered aloud.
“I was in the Army—special forces,” he replied simply. “I had to learn how to cook.”
“You were in Cag Hart’s division, weren’t you?”
He nodded. “So was Matt Caldwell. A lot of local guys turned up there.”
She didn’t know how far to push her luck. Someone had told her that he didn’t like to talk about his unit’s participation in the earlier Iraq conflict. But he got up to slice cake and two Siamese voices grew louder.
“See?” he asked, when the cats appeared on either side of him, their faces lifted as they meowed, sounding for all the world like little children.
“They have unique voices, don’t they?” she asked, fascinated.
“They do. And Siamese have one other peculiarity—they can reach completely behind their heads. They have claws and they aren’t shy about using them,” he added with a warning glance. “Go slowly, and everything will be all right.”
“Do you give them cake?” she asked.
He laughed. “Tiny little bites,” he said, confessing. “I don’t want to make them fat…”
Violet flushed red.
He ground his teeth and looked at her soulfully. “I didn’t mean that the way you’re taking it, Violet,” he said gently. “I don’t think you’re fat. You look exactly as a woman should look, in every way.”
“You said…” she began.
“I took a bad day out on you,” he replied, “and I’m sorrier than you know. It was a vicious thing to do. I made you quit, and I never meant to.”
For an apology, it was wholesale and flattering. She looked at him without blinking. “Really?”
He relaxed when he saw the combined pleasure and fascination in her face. She made him tingle just by looking at him. He wanted to drag her out of her chair and kiss the breath from her body. The thought shocked him. He stood with the knife poised over the cake, just staring at her.
The flush grew. She felt her heart racing like mad in her chest. Her lips parted as she tried to breathe normally.
“A lot of it was the way you dressed,” he said tautly when he managed to drag his eyes back to the cake. “I like the new wardrobe. It fits properly. Baggy dresses and blouses aren’t flattering for a full-figured woman.”
She didn’t take offense. He was looking at her as if he wanted, very badly, to kiss her. As he slid a piece of cake onto a saucer and put it in front of her, she looked up into his pale eyes with pure lust.
It had been a long time between women, but Kemp hadn’t forgotten the way a woman looked when she wanted to be kissed. Absently, his lean hand went to the back of Violet’s chair and he bent toward her confidently.
Her intake of breath made him hesitate, but only for a second. His other hand came up to her softly rounded chin and he tilted it up, just a fraction. “Don’t make such heavy weather of it,” he whispered as his mouth hovered over hers. “I want to kiss you as you much as you want me to.”
“Re…really?” she choked.
He smiled gently. “Really.”
His lips teased over her full mouth, nibbling her upper lip while he tasted it with a lazy stroke of his tongue. Violet jumped and shivered. The contact was completely out of her experience. She’d dated a few boys, but she didn’t seem to appeal to any of them physically. This was different. She wished she knew what to do, so that he wouldn’t stop.
He lifted his head and looked into her rapt, expectant eyes. She was breathing like a distance runner. Her breasts were shaking under the whip of her pulse. He’d thought she was at least a little experienced, but it seemed he was wrong.
His thumb moved to her lower lip and tugged it down gently as his head bent again.
“We have to start somewhere,” he breathed as his mouth opened against her full, soft lips.
Violet shivered. Her hands went to his arms, her fingers digging in. He was muscular. He didn’t look muscular in his suits, but she could feel the strength at this range. She moaned, a whisper of sound that drew his head up.
His eyes met hers, and there was no teasing in them now. They were intent, darker, hungry.
Her fingers lifted to his cheek, hesitantly. “Don’t…stop,” she pleaded in a soft, shaky whisper.
A muscle in his jaw tensed. He bent again, his own heart racing. “Violet,” he whispered.
This time the kiss wasn’t teasing, tender, or brief. He ground his mouth into her soft lips. She moaned again, and this time her hands met behind his neck and dug in. His mouth grew demanding.
There was another moan, but this one wasn’t passionate.
His head jerked back. Violet reached down and grabbed her ankle just as Yow drew back, hissing.
“Yow!” Kemp exclaimed, moving around the chair to shoo the cat away while he knelt and examined Violet’s ankle. It was bleeding. “I’m sorry! I wouldn’t have had this happen for the world!”
“I must have stepped on her tail, poor thing,” Violet faltered. It was exciting to kiss Blake Kemp. It was equally exciting to have him at her feet, concerned for her.
“You were kissing me,” he corrected. “They’re jealous of any attention I pay to other people.”
“This has…happened before?” she asked miserably.
“Yes. Well, no, not like this,” he said. “Mee sank her teeth into Cy Parks one day when he was having coffee with me in the kitchen.”
“I see,” she began.
He gave her a wicked grin. “I wasn’t kissing him.”
She burst out laughing.
