Read Between the Lines Page 8

  And he could never give her either.

  He glanced up as he felt the trickle of cold air from the door. At first he thought he was mistaken; it couldn’t be Katie. But it was. She looked his way and smiled, and his heart slammed into his throat. What was she doing here?

  She hung her coat on one of the antique brass hooks by the door and headed toward him, a subtle swing to her walk, her mouth curving once again into a smile.

  Michael swallowed hard. She looked different. Sexy. He realized he was staring at the place where fuzzy white fabric ended and smooth white flesh began and jerked his gaze back to hers.

  Katherine put her hands on the bar rail and leaned toward him. “Hello, Michael.” Her voice was husky, a little breathless.

  Michael struggled to keep his eyes on her face. He was only partially successful. “Hi.” The word sounded choked; he scowled and tried again. “This is a surprise.”

  She looked down, then back up at him through a sweep of thick, dark lashes. “A good one, I hope.”

  Michael noticed two guys at the end of the bar looking her way. “Sure, of course. I’m always happy to see a—” from the corner of his eyes, he saw the guys pick up their drinks and start down the bar “—a...um, friend. Have a seat.”

  She turned her head to glance around the bar, then slid onto a stool. “I wouldn’t want to disturb you while you’re working.”

  He furiously wiped the bar top in front of her with a damp rag. “You’re not disturbing me.” She was driving him crazy instead. And he was acting like a seventeen-year-old virgin. He tried to pull himself together. “You cut your hair.” His voice was thick, almost gruff, and he nearly groaned out loud. So much for another tack.

  Katherine ran a hand through the layers. “Just a little. Do you like it?”

  “God, yes.” Her silky black hair slid over and between her fingers. He imagined his own hands threading through the midnight strands. Michael jerked his gaze away. “The usual?”

  “Uh-uh.” She tipped her head back, her smile brilliant. “I think I want something—I don’t know, more exciting.”

  “Exciting?”

  “Mmm...” She lightly touched her index finger to her lips, then caught it between her teeth. “I know, I’ll have a martini.”

  “A martini?” Feeling a little unsteady, Michael drew a deep breath. It didn’t help, and he silently swore.

  “A gin martini. Very dry, shaken not stirred.”

  “James Bond’s drink?” Michael asked, raising his eyebrows.

  She lowered her lashes. “I said I wanted exciting.”

  “Right,” he muttered, gritting his teeth as the guys from down the bar reseated themselves a stool away from Katherine. She seemed oblivious to both their move and interest. As he made her drink, he kept his eyes on them all, knowing he was acting like a protective lover but unable to stop.

  A carryover from their college days, Michael reassured himself, skewering an olive and dropping it into the glass. He was watching out for her, that’s all. As he set the drink in front of her, he shot the two men a narrow-eyed glance.

  “Thanks.” Katherine trailed a finger around the rim of the glass, then dipped it into the cold, wet liquid. She brought the finger to her mouth.

  Michael’s eyes followed the movement, a lump forming in his throat. Resisting the urge to take her drink away and send her back home, he murmured, “So, what brings you out tonight?”

  She lifted the glass to her lips. “I wanted to have some fun.”

  “Fun?”

  “Mmm, fun.” She sipped the potent liquid, her eyes never leaving his. “Any suggestions?”

  He had a suggestion all right—and so did every other man within twenty feet. He loosened his suddenly snug collar. “Lower you voice, Katie.”

  “Lower? Why?” She leaned forward, her eyes earnest. As she did, the neckline of her sweater slipped, revealing the top of a creamy, round breast—softer, whiter than the sweater.

  Michael’s mouth went dry; his temperature skyrocketed. He turned away on the pretense of pouring himself a soda. While he filled the glass, he breathed deeply through his nose and told himself that he absolutely was not jealous. So what if every guy in the place was wishing, praying and hoping for a chance with her? So what if she wasn’t wearing a bra? It wasn’t any concern of his.

  He swung back around and saw red. One of the slimeballs to her right had started a conversation—and it looked to Michael like the guy was conversing with her chest. The urge to grab the man by the neck and throw him out of the bar surged through him.

  He shoved his hands into his pockets, checking the urge, feeling shaken. This had to stop. He had no interest in Katie other than—He watched as she took another sip of her drink, watched as her neck arched slightly, saw her tongue dart out to catch a drop of moisture on her full bottom lip.

  He was in serious trouble.

  With more force than necessary, but as lightly as he could manage, he set his soda on the bar in front of her. “Excuse me, I need to see to my other customers.”

  Forty minutes later, Katherine glanced at Michael from under lowered lashes, a sinking sensation in her stomach. Michael was at the other end of the bar, talking to the waitress. She pursed her lips. In the last forty minutes he’d talked to everyone in the bar—everyone, that was, except her.

  She looked down at her empty glass. It wasn’t working. She’d tried. She’d talked, flirted and teased; the more she had, the quieter, the more preoccupied he’d become. From the first, he’d seemed angry and uncomfortable.

  Katherine caught herself shredding her cocktail napkin and dropped her hands to her lap. In a last-ditch effort to get a reaction out of him, she’d talked with the guys sitting next to her. Nothing! At least they’d been attentive! Michael couldn’t even be bothered to get her another dr—

  “Katherine, what a pleasure!”

  She swung around. Dean Johnson had come up behind her. It looked as if he was alone. She smiled with relief. At least she would have someone to talk to now. “Dean! What are you doing here?”

  He slid onto the stool next to her. “I’m going up to the college to hear Norman French’s lecture. I thought I’d stop by for a drink first.” He knocked on the bar to get Michael’s attention. “Are you alone?”

  Katherine felt color creep up her cheeks, and told herself that it was perfectly acceptable for a thirty-year-old woman to be sitting alone in a bar on a Saturday night. She felt as if she’d been caught red-handed anyway. She cleared her throat. “Yes, I didn’t have any plans tonight so—”

  “Great.” Dean tapped on the bar again. “Why don’t you come with me? It promises to be an excellent lecture. French is the most noted man in his field.”

  “Oh, I don’t know...” She saw Michael coming their way and used the interruption to stall Dean. The truth was, even though Michael was ignoring her, she didn’t want to give up yet. When he stopped in front of them, she made the introductions. “Michael, I’d like you to meet Dean Johnson. He’s an anthropology professor at the—”

  “We’ve met before,” Michael said shortly, staring at the other man, making no effort to hide the fact he was sizing him up. From his neatly trimmed beard to his tweed jacket, Dean Johnson was pure professor and just the type of man Katie preferred. Michael narrowed his eyes. This was also the “yes” man who’d sent her flowers, the same man he’d seen here in the bar hitting on the coeds. If this overeducated skirt-chaser laid one finger on Katie, he would throttle him. “I never forget a customer,” he added meaningfully, holding out his hand. “Michael Tardo... Katie’s roommate.”

  The other man hesitated, then recognition flashed in his eyes, and he took Michael’s hand. “Katherine’s study partner.”

  Michael gave the man a slow, satisfied smile. “I suppose you could call it that.”

  Katherine’s breath caught. What was he doing? Michael made it sound as though...Dean would think that they were... She stiffened. She knew exactly what he was up to�
��he was playing big brother. The few guys she’d dated in college had been bullied, intimidated and finally, sent packing by Michael. Back then, she’d fantasized all sorts of romantic reasons why he didn’t want her with another man; now she had enough experience and objectivity to know he imagined himself some modern-day knight in shining armor and her an innocent damsel in distress.

  Whatever his intentions, it was embarrassing. Dean was a colleague; she had a reputation to protect. Katherine lifted her chin. “Dean was just telling me about a lecture tonight at the college.”

  “Oh?” Michael folded his arms across his chest.

  “Indeed,” Dean inserted. “I was trying to convince Katherine to go with me. Norman French is speaking on pre-Colombian pottery. It’s tonight only and sure to be gripping.”

  “I’m sure.” Michael’s mouth curved in amusement. “And what did she say?”

  That he could so blithely ask the question made her blood boil. She would show Michael Tardo! With a brilliant smile, she turned to Dean. “I was about to say, I’d love to go.”

  “Great.” Dean rubbed his hands together. “I think we still have time for that drink. Michael, bring me a glass of white wine... and get Katherine another.”

  Without another word, Michael took her empty glass and moved down the bar to get their drinks. Katherine watched him for a moment, then dropped her eyes to the bar. Michael didn’t care at all that another man had just asked her out and that she’d accepted! He hadn’t even looked at her! She’d gone to all this trouble, and he wasn’t affected at all.

  Well, she wasn’t about to sit around feeling miserable. She’d given it a chance; it hadn’t worked. Who cared? She certainly didn’t. She and Dean were going to have a lovely time. It might even be the start of—

  “Here you are.” Michael set the drinks in front of them and some of Dean’s wine sloshed over the side and onto the cocktail napkin. Michael replaced the napkin, his full attention on the other man. “I’ve always been fascinated by pre-Columbian pottery,” he murmured. “But I haven’t been able to find a definitive text on the subject. What do you suggest?”

  Without any further prompting, Dean launched into a description of several. While he orated on the subject, Katherine picked up her drink, annoyed. Michael was trying to make Dean look like a pretentious jerk. Well, it wouldn’t work. So what if Dean had found a way to mention both his graduate days at Columbia and the number of articles he’d had published while discussing a totally unrelated subject? So what if he had gotten so carried away he’d forgotten she was there? She was going to enjoy this evening.

  Katherine lifted the glass to her lips and sipped. Her eyes widened in surprise, then flew to Michael’s. When he cocked his head and grinned at her, her blood pressure skyrocketed. The drink was nothing but water with an olive tossed in for effect! This was going too far! She would not let him decide how much she could or could not drink and opened her mouth to tell him so, then shut it again as she realized how the whole scenario would look to Dean.

  Katherine met Michael’s amused gaze with her own furious one. She drained the glass and pushed it across the bar toward him. He smiled and shook his head, and she narrowed her eyes. Of all the arrogant, infuriating, interfering... She cleared her throat. “Excuse me, Dean. Won’t the lecture be starting soon?”

  “Right you are.” Dean pulled out his wallet. “Too bad you have to work, Michael, because I’m sure there are tickets available.”

  “Yeah, too bad.” Michael slipped his hands into his trouser pockets, his gaze never leaving Katherine’s. “It’s a shame the lecture isn’t being repeated tomorrow night. I’m sure Bridget, my date, would find it as stimulating as I would. As an international flight attendant she doesn’t get much of a chance for that type of thing.” He shifted his gaze to Katherine’s. “If you could hang around you’d meet her. She’s coming here straight from the airport.”

  Bridget? Katherine fumed moments later as she left the bar with Dean. Michael had a date with a flight attendant? No doubt Bridget would be too lightheaded from so many takeoffs and landings to appreciate a lecture on something as important as the functional art of the Mayas, Olmecs and Aztecs.

  She slipped her arm through Dean’s and tipped her chin up. She hoped Michael would have fun with his dizzy date, because she was going to have a perfectly wonderful time with hers.

  Chapter 6

  Michael paced. Where the hell was she? She’d left the bar—he checked his watch—six hours and ten minutes ago. He pictured her and Dean strolling out the door arm in arm, and his blood pressure rose.

  He shouldn’t have let her go, Michael thought for the hundredth time. He should have leaped over the bar, punched that intellectual bozo out and hauled Katherine into his arms. It certainly was what he’d wanted to do.

  Michael flexed his fingers. But he’d had no right to follow his instincts. He had no claim on her, so he’d stood by and let her leave with a man who had sent her flowers on Valentine’s Day and asked her to say “yes.”

  What if she did? Michael cursed and dragged his hands through his hair, his heart thudding against his chest as he pictured Katherine in the other man’s arms, in his bed.

  He started to pace again. Where was she? It was two o’clock in the morning, for God’s sake! He checked his watch, then groaned as he saw it was actually after two. What could they be doing? Activities at this time of the morning were limited. He imagined several of the juicier possibilities and broke out in a cold sweat.

  It’d been torture watching her all night. She’d been beautiful, vivacious, alluring; men had been falling all over themselves for her attention. A panicky sensation settled in his stomach. He’d experienced it earlier tonight and he remembered feeling the same way at eighteen when faced with Katherine’s brainy friends, or, worse, her parents.

  The sensation made him feel young and uncertain, and he strode to the window and glared out at the night. There was no movement on the river; there wasn’t a light shining on either shore. Of course there wasn’t, he thought derisively, everyone in Rockford except him, Katherine and Dean was home sleeping.

  He swung away from the window and stared at the front door, willing it to open, willing Katherine to be on the other side. What had gotten into her? Bars, low-cut sweaters and martinis weren’t her style. Neither were provocative glances or throaty laughs. What was she trying to prove, or rather, who was she trying to impress?

  Not him, he thought, frustrated. She’d barely looked at him before her professor friend had come in, and not at all after. Michael grinned as he thought of her drink refill and her reaction to it. A moment later his smile faded. There were lots of ways to have fun, and all of them could be had without liquor.

  Fun. The panic tightened in his chest, almost overwhelming, him. He wanted his old Katie back. His serious, quiet, a little shy Katie. He wanted the woman who was cautious, analytical and covered from head to toe in conservative wools. And he wanted her home.

  Michael started to check his watch again, then gritted his teeth and stuffed his hands into his pockets. Watching the clock wasn’t going to help—neither was pacing. A drink, he decided. A drink would help, and several would be even better. Tossing another glance at the door, he headed for the kitchen.

  * * *

  Katherine took a deep breath outside the condominium door, and silently gave thanks she was home. The evening with Dean had been perfect, all right—a perfect disaster. The lecture had been boring—the anthropologist had used as many five-syllable words as possible and delivered them all in a monotone. Dinner had been even worse. Dean had chosen a restaurant as pretentious as the lecture, then had kept up a steady stream of self-aggrandizement. She hadn’t been able to get a word in edgewise.

  All she’d been able to think about had been Michael and getting home, and the more she’d wanted to leave, the more Dean had lingered. The scenic route back to her condo had been the last straw, and in desperation she’d complained of a headache.

&
nbsp; Katherine let her breath out in a long sigh and fitted her key into the lock. She’d seen Michael’s car in the lot so she knew he was home. Before she had, she’d been afraid he would still be out; now she was afraid he would be up. She squared her shoulders. If he was, she would give it one last try. She had to.

  She turned the key and stepped inside. The apartment was dark save for the light that streamed from the kitchen doorway. She hesitated, then shrugged out of her coat and hung it up. If he wasn’t in the kitchen, he was asleep. Hope threaded through her, and she called herself a coward. Pulse racing, Katherine headed for the bright rectangle of light.

  He was up. He was wearing blue jeans and a thick white sweater; his feet were bare, his hair rumpled. He was leaning against the sink, staring out the window. There was a full glass of red wine on the counter next to him, an open bottle next to that. He looked at her as she stepped out of the darkness and into the brilliantly lit kitchen.

  “Hi,” she said, sounding even more nervous than she’d thought she would. She pushed her hair behind her ear; the new shorter layers didn’t want to stay there and the inky black strands feathered back over her cheek. “You’re still up.”

  “Evidently.” He lifted his glass in a gesture of acknowledgment, then returned his gaze to the window.

  She cleared her throat and shifted her weight from her right foot to her left. Something was wrong. It was in his eyes, his stance, his voice. What if that something was Bridget or some other woman?

  Katherine realized her hands were trembling and wished for pockets to hide them in. When none appeared, she willed them to be still. This was her chance.

  She took a tentative step into the room. “Did the crowd thin out after I left?”

  “What crowd?” he asked sarcastically, bringing the glass to his lips, not taking his gaze from the window.

  “Is that what’s bothering you?” She took another step toward him, relieved. “The kids had—”