For Keeps Page 6

  When they stopped for lunch six butterflies were resting on the clump of grass in the bottom of the cage, which Casey considered an extraordinary catch.

  "What are you going to do with them?" she asked, pushing her heavy ponytail off her neck as she sank to the blanket.

  "I'm not really sure." Casey opened the bottle of white wine and poured two paper cups full. "Some kind of soap commercial. They just call me up and tell me what they need and I get it for them if I can."

  "But butterflies. Seems like an odd request to make of an animal trainer."

  "That's nothing." He handed her a cup of wine. "You should have been here the time I had to get a hundred spiders on the set for a horror movie. Or the bees. Now that was an experience to remember.''

  "I guess I should count myself lucky I didn't know you back then, or you'd have me out here with a beekeeper's hat and gloves, shaking honey trees."

  He smiled. "I don't know. I think it would have been nice to know you back then."

  "So I could help you catch bees?"

  "No." His eyes were sun drowsy and backlit with warmth as he lifted his cup to her in a small toast. "Just to know you."

  Lyn felt a catch in her throat at the unexpected sweetness of the sentiment, and she quickly lowered her eyes to her cup as she took a sip of wine. Just when she thought she had him figured out, he had to do something endearing, catching her off guard and making her uncertain again. Clearly, Casey Carmichael was a complication in her life she couldn't afford... and yet she wasn't entirely sure he was an unwelcome one, either.

  They feasted on cheese and apples, and Casey scolded Lyn playfully for feeding her peanut butter sandwich to the dogs, piece by piece.

  "They're twins." Lyn lazily observed the dogs, leaning back on one elbow to sip her wine. "A lot of your animals are."

  "I try to work them in pairs. That way, I can double the number of tricks they can do, and if one doesn't feel like performing on a particular day we don't have to shut down the set."

  "Makes sense. Except for Grizabella. There's only one of her."

  He made an expression of distaste. "Which makes one too many. That's what happens when you let advertising people take over—they gave me the cat and told me to make her a star, thinking that just because she could trace her ancestry back to Queen Victoria she had to be a genius. Dumbest damn cat I ever saw."

  Lyn chuckled, rolling over to her side to look at him. "She's sold a lot of cat food,"

  "Maybe. But give me a good honest mutt who wouldn't recognize his mother on the street any day."

  His eyes followed the curve of her jaw and the slope of her neck with absent pleasure, resting at last on the dip of her cleavage where the position of her arm pushed her breasts together. She had taken off her outer shirt as the day grew hotter, and the skinny tank top molded the long line of her torso, clinging to her skin where a line of perspiration dampened the material between her breasts. Casey felt the pace of his pulse increase as he followed that dark line down her sternum until it disappeared inside her shorts, and he could not help imagining his fingers tracing the path along soft, slippery skin. He wondered if she had any idea how sexy she was. He wondered if she would object if he told her... or showed her.

  She said, "Where do you get all your animals?"

  He raised his eyes to her face again, and drew his thoughts away from their errant course. "From the pound mostly." He took a sip of wine to hide a slight expression of bitterness as he added, "You'd be surprised what Americans throw out with the garbage."

  "So," Lyn said softly, "you do care."

  He was surprised.' 'What?''

  "You said your animals were just a job, and you never got attached to them. But I think you're just an old softie at heart."

  That made him uncomfortable. Casey was not used to people analyzing him, seeing through him, drawing conclusions that were better left unspoken—even if they were the correct ones. Had the observation come from another woman he would have closed her out solidly, or deftly turned her away with a joke. But because it was Lyn, because the quiet, open way she looked at him suggested a kind of intimacy he had never expected from her, he was taken off guard. He didn't feel threatened, he felt—touched. Pleased. And he couldn't push her away, not entirely.

  The smile that curved his lips was wistful; his eyes shadowed as he looked down into his wine. "Honey—" the endearment came out so naturally that she barely noticed it "—I haven't been attached to anyone or anything since I was a kid. I don't think I'm capable of it anymore." He looked at her, and his eyes held a quiet honesty with no regret. "You should remember that."

  Lyn looked across the blanket to where one of the collies was lying with its head between its paws, eagerly watching their every move in case a scrap of food should happen to fall his way. She wanted to ask him why, to know what had happened to make him so guarded...and then she didn't want to know. She didn't want the responsibility of hearing what he might tell her, she didn't want to risk understanding, and perhaps caring. She wanted to keep it simple.

  "I know what you mean," she said lightly, though her heart was beating a little faster than normal. "In my line of work, you learn early not to get too involved. It gets to be a habit after a while."

  He smiled. "I don't think you're the kind of person who could ever stay uninvolved. In fact, if I had to guess, I'd say your problem is that you care too much."

  Before she could ask what he meant by that, he sat up to refill his cup and changed the subject. "Are you having a good time?"

  "Hmm." She cradled her head on her folded arm and nodded drowsily. "I really am."

  "Me, too. It's not often I get a chance to do nothing."

  Lyn laughed, spilling some of the wine that he had recently poured into her cup. "Chasing butterflies around a three-acre lake is your idea of doing nothing? I don't think I've had so much exercise since I came to Florida,"

  "A little honest butterfly chasing never hurt anybody." His eyes crinkled as he stretched out beside her, his weight resting on his elbows, his ankles crossed and his head tilted back. His clean masculine scent was as warm as sunshine, and he was so close that the fine, gold-tinted hairs along the back of his arm brushed against her bare shoulder. She could hear his soft breathing, the day was so still, and for a time she was fascinated by the rhythmic rise and fall of his breast muscles against the material of his shirt.

  She looked at his face and found him gazing down at her with the same sort of lazy absorption with which she had been observing him. The hint of a smile was in his eyes, and cloud shadows drifted slowly overhead, lightening and darkening the smooth planes of his face. She felt her skin tighten in anticipation as he shifted slightly, lifting his hand to brush away the curl that clung to her cheek.

  He said, "I've never known a redhead with gray eyes before."

  His fingertips lingered on her face, lightly stroking the curve of her earlobe. Lyn's breath was thin and her throat felt husky as she replied, "I think it's going to rain."

  Radiating lines appeared around his eyes with his smile. "That's a non sequitur if I ever heard one."

  She knew she should do something to break the spell, but she didn't quite have the will. The sun and the wine made her lethargic, and the gentle caress of his fingers on her skin worked its own energy-stripping magic. So she merely pointed out, without much conviction, "We still have butterflies to catch."

  "They're not going anywhere."

  His fingers drifted over her jaw line, and lingered for a moment on her throat. Lyn's pulse speeded with the touch. She lifted her eyes to his. "Casey," she asked softly, "why did you ask me here today?"

  He could have-answered in a dozen different ways, and all of them would have been the truth. He could have ignored the question, and gently turned her delicate, slightly parted lips to his, which at that moment was above all things in the world what he wanted to do. But caution reasserted itself, and common sense. Sometimes he was led far too much by his instincts, and where L
yn was concerned he wasn't at all sure his instincts could be trusted.

  So, after a moment's hesitation, he lifted his hand to her hair, playfully adjusted her visor, and whatever tenuous magic that had begun between them was gone. He said, "Aside from the fact that I like you and thought you needed something more interesting to do than lie around the house sleeping till five o'clock in the afternoon? I'm glad you asked."

  He sat up, and Lyn, feeling far too vulnerable to remain lying down, reluctantly did the same. He finished the last of his wine and said, "As a matter of fact, I have a proposition for you. It turns out that my kennel boy doesn't have the flu, he has mono. Now I know you don't hear much about that nowadays, but that's the way it is, and he won't be back to work for a month at least. So how would you like a job?"

  That was the last thing she had expected to hear him say, and for a moment shock—and disappointment— were so bitter in her throat that she couldn't even speak. At last she managed, "Kennel boy? You want me to be your kennel boy?"

  He held up a hand as though to forestall the outrage that must have been forming in her eyes. "No, let me rephrase that. I wouldn't ask you to do kennel work—I can take care of that part until I can hire some high-school kid. But Joey really left me in a bind. He had just gotten to the point where he was a big help in training, and the behaviors go a lot faster with an assistant. It's not hard work, but it sure would be a help to me."

  When he put it like that, Lyn's rancor seemed misplaced. She still did not find the proposal in the least bit appealing, but it didn't sound like quite the insult it had seemed to be at first.

  She said, "I don't think so. I mean, I've still got Pat's business to run—"

  "It would only be a couple or three hours a day," he said, "and no real physical labor. You might even enjoy it."

  She was already shaking her head. "No, you don't understand. These last two pet-sitting jobs are over tomorrow and we don't have anything else lined up—"

  "Perfect."

  "And" she continued firmly, "I was looking forward to having some time off while Pat's away, to just relax and have a vacation."

  Casey said perceptively, "From what you've told me, it sounds as though you've been on vacation since you got here."

  She bristled unaccountably. "So? There's nothing wrong with that. That's what people come to Florida for!"

  "Everyone needs a job, Lyn," Casey said gently. "Even burned-out social workers with no direction in life."

  She scowled sharply. "So is that what this is—some kind of therapy?"

  His smile was so easy that it was impossible to suspect the motives behind it. "Maybe it's just a way to guarantee that I get to see more of you."

  Lyn dropped her eyes uncomfortably. "Well...thanks but no thanks. I'm not very good with animals, you've seen that for yourself. And I don't want a job."

  "I wouldn't be so hasty if I were you. The pay isn't much, but the fringe benefits are out of this world."

  She glanced at him, then quickly away, afraid to ask what those fringe benefits might be. She said, "I'm not interested. I don't want to get involved in anything, or be responsible for anything right now. I like things the way they are."

  "I think a little responsibility is just what you need right now to take your mind off your troubles."

  "I told you, I'm not interested."

  He was unfazed. "You think about it," he advised. And, without giving her a chance for further argument he caught her hand. "Now, let's see about those butterflies. We need to get at least a dozen more before we can start home."

  They had not spotted the first butterfly when the rain came. It blew up suddenly, the way rain showers in Florida often did, with an abrupt graying of the sky, a gust of wind, and a downpour. The dogs, who were a good deal smarter than their human companions, raced for the car while Lyn and Casey struggled with the unwieldy butterfly nets and the wire cage.

  "The blanket!" Lyn cried, gesturing back toward the picnic area. "It's going to get soaked!"

  "Too late!" Casey grabbed her hand and they raced toward the shelter of the small gazebo at the edge of the lake.

  The grass was slippery and Lyn almost lost her footing more than once, each time only Casey's strong arm saved her. By the time they reached the shelter, gasping and laughing, the violence of the downpour had lightened to a steady drumming on the gazebo roof, but they were both drenched through. Lyn's hair was a heavy mass at the back of her neck, dripping rivulets of water over her shoulders and her face, the polished cotton shorts clung limply to her legs, and the tank top was molded to her body, clearly showing the shape of her nipples, which were puckered with the cold. Casey pushed his hand over his face, wiping the water out of his eyes, then shook his head, spraying water everywhere and laughing as Lyn squealed and stepped back.

  "The poor butterflies!" she exclaimed, examining the wire cage. "They're all wet!"

  "They'll survive," Casey assured her and took the cage from her.

  "But we still need more." Lyn wrung out the hem of her shorts. "We'll never get another dozen now."

  "Trick photography," Casey assured her. "It can make half a dozen butterflies look like a hundred."

  That was when she noticed an odd, almost absent tone to his voice, and when she looked up he was standing very close, looking down at her and smiling. "What?" she said nervously, pushing at the wet tendrils of hair that shadowed her forehead. "Do I look like a drowned rat?"

  The smile deepened, and he took a step forward, so that his thighs were almost brushing hers. Lightly he dropped his hands onto her shoulders. "You look," he told her, "like a mermaid."

  "Is that supposed to be a compliment?" Her voice was a little breathless as she looked up at him. His touch, the gentle murmur of the rain, the soft light in his eyes seemed to draw a blanket of intimacy and expectation around them. Despite the chill rain, Lyn felt flushed. She didn't seem to be able to take her eyes from his.

  "It's a compliment," Casey told her. His finger came up and wiped a trickle of rain from her throat. "Your face looks like it's covered with dew, and your eyes are the color of morning."

  He lowered his face and she felt the gentle brush of the tip of his tongue against her cheek, tasting the rain. Lyn did not breathe. A melting sensation of paralysis went through her muscles with the warm flood of his breath across her face, the whisper-soft touch of his tongue against her temple, the lobe of her ear, the tip of her nose. Somehow her hands were resting on his waist, and she could feel the heat of his flesh beneath the wet material, the tensing and lengthening of lean muscles as he leaned forward, teasing the droplets of rain from her skin.

  With each brush of his lips or tongue across her face a new set of nerve endings flared to life, a new flutter of heat leaped into her veins. The rush and roar of her heartbeat was in counter rhythm to the steady pulse of rain on the gazebo roof, and her breath was a thin shallow stream through parted lips. When his mouth brushed hers she instinctively turned into the caress, drawing him close, sinking into his embrace.

  Casey let the last of his self-restraint slip away as he drew her mouth to his, tasting her, holding her, and the truth was he didn't have a choice. He could no longer remember why it had seemed so important to back away before, and keeping his distance from her seemed like the most absurd intention he had ever had. He couldn't resist her. He didn't want to. And it was more than just this moment, the warmth of her rain-bathed skin melding with his, her wildflower scent enveloping him, the simple feel of her, inside his head, inside his skin. His pulses soared and fever flared and he couldn't think what was best anymore. He didn't want to think. He wanted this kiss to go on forever. He wanted to lower her to the ground and slip her clothes aside and explore every curve and hidden recess of her body; he wanted to bury himself with her, to drown inside her. He wanted to hold her, to be a part of her, to let himself be absorbed in her and her in him, and he wanted it to last for a very long time. And he couldn't think of a single reason any. of that should not come t
o pass. He could not remember why w-12 once he had warned himself not to get too close to her.

  Lyn tasted the smooth heat of his tongue in an explosion of dizziness and color, a flood of intense awareness that invaded her senses and left her weak. Dimly she was aware of his fingers, strong and hard, on her back, and the texture of his damp jeans against her bare thighs. A smothered moan escaped her and her arms, with a will of their own, encircled him, fingertips pressing into his neck, holding him close. He tasted of wine and rain. He filled her with heat and a swirling pattern of light and dark. Her heart was thundering, and she couldn't separate her own breath from his.

  His mouth left hers, brushing across the line of her jaw, pressing long and deep into her throat. His hands slid up her rib cage until they cupped her heavy, aching breasts and everything within Lyn seemed to stop, wanting and not wanting, suspended in anticipation of his touch. Only the thin layer of material separated her flesh from the heat of his touch, and when his fingertips began to stroke her breasts, tracing their shape and fullness with an electric touch, it was as though nothing separated them at all. Darts of pleasure tightened in her loins as he encircled her swollen nipples, surges of helpless, aching need. She wanted to sink into it, she wanted to surrender to the powerful, demanding world of sensation he created, and in another moment that was exactly what she would have done.

  She closed her fingers around his wrists; she whispered, "Casey.. .don't. Stop. Please."

  His hands slid down to her waist; he pressed a long kiss against the curve of her collarbone. His breath was an uneven flood against her skin and she could feel his heartbeat thundering against hers as he whispered, "Come home with me.”

  “ No," she replied hoarsely, and with a great effort. She forced herself to open her eyes, to take his arms again and take a small step backward. Her breath came in erratic leaps and starts, her muscles ached, and even her skin felt raw, abraded by his touch. "No," she repeated, with slightly more conviction.