No way. Couldn’t happen. If they fooled around in the shower, he’d never make it to Celia’s apartment by six.
And she did need to go home, to recoup and reevaluate.
He must have read her thoughts in her expression, because he added, “Don’t worry. There are two showers. You can lather up alone.”
When they were both fully dressed again, he pulled her into his arms.
He kissed her. At length.
When he lifted his head, he commanded in a low tone, “Don’t talk yourself out of this. Please …”
He looked … vulnerable. At that moment she was certain he’d be hurt if she refused to see him again. In spite of her strong reservations, her heart warmed to him. She could almost hope …
What? She wasn’t quite sure. Maybe for more of him than his gorgeous body. For his deepest secrets, that he might give them to her, to share. For his trust …
She told him honestly, “If I could talk myself out of this, I would have done it already.”
“But you couldn’t—you can’t.”
“I don’t think so. Especially not after today …”
He traced the line of her jaw, his touch setting off sparks. “Now that’s what I like to hear.”
Going home didn’t help much. The cozy rooms seemed kind of empty and she felt at a loss—for Fletcher. How crazy was that?
She sat on her sofa and pretended to watch the news and relived every moment of the afternoon before—every sigh, every kiss, every lingering touch.
The phone rang at nine and she knew it would be him.
“Hello?”
“I hope to hell you’re not thinking.”
Happiness glowed all through her. Was she foolish? Oh, yes. Did she care?
Not hardly. “I have been thinking, as a matter of fact. Thinking about this afternoon …”
“I love it when you get that husky tone. I know then that I’ve got you.”
“As always, you are stunningly sure of yourself.”
Was he smiling? Oh, yes. She knew that he was. “I’m going to consider that a compliment,” he said.
“Ah,” she said, because the truth was, her mind was so filled with him, there was no room left for thinking up clever replies.
“I wish you were here with me.”
She found, incredibly, that she believed him. “I’m glad,” she answered softly.
“What are you wearing?”
She threw back her head and she laughed, then she whispered into the mouthpiece, “Who is this?”
“A very bad man. Tell me what you’re wearing.”
She sighed—good and loud, so he would be sure to hear it. “I’ll say this much, I’m looking really glamorous.”
“I want specifics.”
“Don’t go there. Keep your illusions.”
“I said specifics.”
“You’ll be sorry.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“Just remember, you asked for it. I’m wearing ugly old sweatpants.”
“Sweatpants excite me. What color?”
“Oh, come on …”
“What color?”
She gave in and told him. “Light blue.”
“Sexy.”
“If you say so …”
“I do. What else?”
“A stretched out KinderWay T-shirt and ratty slippers.”
“I’m getting that feeling. You know which one I mean?”
“I could guess….”
“And underneath the blue sweatpants?”
“Panties. Plain cotton.”
“White?”
“Yes.”
“I love plain white cotton. So … functional.”
“Well, yes. It’s that.”
“Bra?”
“I’ll never tell.”
“Take it all off. Now.”
“Fletcher?”
“What?”
“Is this phone sex we’re having?”
“Now you’re catchin’ on.”
The next morning, Friday, she was in the five-year-olds’ room when he dropped Ashlyn off.
“Cleo!” Ashlyn ran to her.
She bent down and caught the warm little body close in her arms. “Oh, it’s so good to see you.”
Ashlyn pulled back and laid her small, soft hand so briefly against Cleo’s cheek. It felt absolutely lovely, that fond, trusting touch. The little girl asked, “Can I read to you today?”
“I would like that very much.”
“When?”
“How about morning playtime? I’ll come back here to your classroom.”
“Don’t forget.”
“I won’t. I promise.” She rose to her height again, a delicious flush sweeping through her as she met Fletcher’s eyes.
“Walk me out to the gate,” he said.
She joined him as he turned for the door.
Once out of the classroom, they crossed the breezeway and headed down the walk. At the gate he paused and turned to her. “Tonight?”
Her heart beat in a lazy, deep kind of way. Her blood moved slow and sweet through her veins as she thought of the afternoon before—of last night on the phone. “Yes.”
“I’ll pick you up at eight.”
He arrived right on time. They went to a little Italian place he knew off the Strip, away from the glitz and the glitter. The food was good and the wine even better.
She held it to one glass. Just being with him was challenge enough to her good sense. He asked her about her years as a showgirl and she told him everything he wanted to know—about the shows she’d been in and the killing hours, working all night, going to school in the daytime.
“It was tough. I never got enough sleep. After a show, we’d all be keyed up. The temptation was to hang out with the other dancers, have a few drinks, kind of come down. But when I did that, I wouldn’t get to bed until after daylight. In my case, I needed to be at my first class at ten. No way. I had to force myself to go straight home.”
“You have discipline.”
She laughed. “There’s not a professional dancer in the world who doesn’t have an excess of that. The work is so demanding. And you just can’t fake it. But for me, well, I was after a different kind of life. And I was fortunate. I managed to take what I knew—dancing—and use it to get where I wanted to go.”
She asked about how he had gotten where