Barefoot by the Sea

Chapter Nine

John approached the hostess stand oozing confidence and control. “Brown,” he said quietly. “Sorry we’re a few minutes late.”

Tessa lifted both eyebrows in surprise, glancing around the quaint Italian restaurant tucked into an obscure Naples neighborhood. “You made reservations?”

“I told you I’m optimistic.” He put a possessive hand on her back to guide her.

“You called while I was changing?”

“No, after I left you this morning.”

And there went those warning bells again. The same ones she’d heard the second time a stranger called him an upstanding citizen and the same ones that had deafened her when he studied her profile so intently in the car.

“First of all,” she said as she tucked into the back booth. “I wouldn’t call what you did ‘leaving.’”

He slid in next to her. “What would you call it?”

She glanced sideways. “Unexpected. But I overstepped my bounds with personal questions.”

“Not at all.” He was close enough that she could feel the heat and strength of him, the power of his thigh next to hers, the pressure of his shoulder. Instead of feeling trapped, though, she felt very—secure.

Which was flat-out nuts. “Are you really going to sit on this side of the table?”

He chuckled softly. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“No, but I can’t see you.”

He instantly transferred to the seat across from her with remarkable agility and speed for a man who had to be six-one and a good—no, a great—one-ninety. “You’re right. Better to look than touch.” But he reached across the table for her hand. “Although who says I can’t do both?”

She let him close his fingers around hers, shaking her head.

“What?” he asked, all innocence and sex appeal.

“Stop pretending.”

John’s expression changed instantly. All the light and laughter went out of his sky-blue eyes, and his mouth grew serious. He looked almost guilty. “I’m not pretending.”

Way in the back of Tessa’s head, she heard that warning bell again. “I meant stop pretending that this is perfectly normal.”

“Dinner dates aren’t normal?”

“This,” she said, freeing her hand from his grip to gesture from her to him and back again. “Like I said, we had a rocky start and you flounced out and—”

He gave a belly laugh. “I can honestly say I’ve never been accused of flouncing.”

“I mean as much as a man your size can flounce.”

He leaned forward, managing to snag her hand again—not that she actually made it that difficult—to weave his fingers through hers.

“Hey,” he whispered, the single syllable as crazy-sexy as any kiss. “Pay attention, now. Here comes the grovel.”

“Better make it good.”

He cleared his throat and tightened his grip. “I am abjectly apologetic for any unexpected, abrupt, or rude flouncing”—the word made him have to fight a smile—“that I may have done this morning.”

“And…”

“And? You want more groveling?”

“I want an explanation. Why did you leave so suddenly?”

For a moment he didn’t speak, but she could tell his mind was whirring and he had trouble swallowing. So whatever he said next would be a lie. She knew it.

“I was hiding something.”

“I knew it.” She leaned back, a smug satisfaction taking hold.

“You did?”

“I knew you were not being straight with me.”

A slow, evil smile curled his lips. “That’s sort of the problem, Tess. I was being, uh, straight.”

She frowned, not following at all. “No you weren’t. You were being evasive and secretive. Two of my least favorite things, I might add.”

He winced. “Well, I had good reason.”

“What was it?”

“You couldn’t tell?” He looked a little relieved. “Well, you’d have figured it out soon enough.”

She still couldn’t make sense of that. “Figured what out?”

“What I was hiding.”

“What were you hiding?”

He lifted both brows like he couldn’t believe she didn’t know. When she shook her head slowly, unable to figure it out, he slowly glanced down at his lap, then back to her, the smile broadening.

“I was sure you’d see how much you—you know, affected me.”

She stared for a moment, part of her wanting to hoot a laugh and call Zoe, the only person who would truly appreciate that excuse. And part of her wanted to squirm at the thought of him affected.

He had danced around her questions, given evasive answers, and walked out because he was aroused? No. Not possible. “Yeah, mud boots and gardening clothes do that every time to a man.”

“I could see past the boots and dirt. And, what can I say? I liked it.” He leaned forward, a glint sparking like gas flames in his eyes. “Didn’t you feel it, too?”

Yes. “No.”

He laughed. “Now who’s lying?”

She was.

“So, am I forgiven?” he asked.

“You’re trying to tell me that you went to all the trouble to try and get that job and made world-class, five-star, mouthwatering avocado soup and bolted out the door because you were…” She let her eyes fall to the table that hid his crotch. “Uncomfortable.”

“Worse than uncomfortable.” Leaning closer, he whispered, “Like a two-by-four, woman.”

Oh, God. She wanted to laugh, but more than that she wanted to crawl over the table and kiss the living hell out of him. And feel that two-by-four.

“So you left.”

“Abruptly,” he acknowledged. “A bit overwhelmed, too.”

“And then you decided to take the job after all.” She played through the logic, and, like everything else about him, it left her mystified. “Why? I mean, if you think these…issues will affect you when we work together.”

“Oh, they will.” He came closer, seeking her hand again. “They definitely will.”

Her pulse kicked as he tugged her fingers, pulling her closer like he had her on a string. “Why isn’t that a problem?”

“Because.” He lifted her hand and brought it to his lips. “I’ve decided not to let it be a problem.” He touched her knuckles with his lips. “It would be crazy not to give in to this chemistry, don’t you think?”

She stared at him, not really sure what “crazy” was anymore.

“Don’t you feel it, too?” he asked.

What, the dry mouth, a racing pulse, weak knees, and the female version of affected? Yeah, she felt it all over. “A little,” she admitted.

“A little?”

A lot. “I definitely thought—think—you’re attractive. And terrifying,” she added impulsively.

“Tessa.” He pulled her hand closer to him, both hands around one of hers now. “This attraction is real. And powerful. And, please God, tell me it’s mutual.”

She couldn’t tell him anything. Because the warning bells in her head were ringing like it was Christmas and she shouldn’t have received this particular gift.

But why not? Didn’t she deserve that same kind of knee-weakening magnetism her friends felt when they’d met their one true loves?

One true love? What the hell was wrong with her?

“It’s not mutual?” he asked, the tiniest note of desperation in his voice.

“You move fast,” she finally said. “Way, way, way too fast.”

“That’s why I left. Because I know myself. I know when I feel something this powerful it isn’t something I can fool around with. I was—okay, I’m going to admit it, now. I was scared.”

Not a chance. “You don’t look like a guy who scares easily.”

“I don’t.” He lifted her fingers to his mouth and leaned closer for another knuckle-kiss. “But you scared me.”

“Why?”

“Because when I look into your eyes, I see…”

She silenced every warning bell, demanding them to stop and let her hear what it was this gorgeous, complicated, surprising, astonishing man saw when he looked into her eyes.

“A future.” He punctuated that with a kiss on her fingertips and, for a moment, Tessa died.

And then the bells rang so loud she didn’t even hear the waitress come to the table. What the hell? They hadn’t even ordered yet and he was talking about a future. The same man who’d evaporated when she used the words sperm donor the other night? Something was very, very wrong with this picture.

Maybe he’d gone too far. Up until “a future,” Ian really hadn’t lied, not technically. He really had left the kitchen because he couldn’t wrap his head around what was happening and she had affected him and he most certainly had been scared of her—at least of her questions. Even the two-by-four wasn’t a lie, although it hadn’t been in his pants. It was a metaphorical plank that slammed sense into his head.

That was why he’d run off.

So everything was true, more or less. Until that last declaration. The only future he saw when he looked into her eyes was his, with Sam and Shiloh. He saw a means to an end and, damn, that made him a heartless bastard.

“A future?” From the cynicism in her voice, she wasn’t buying. “This is the same guy who said, and I quote, ‘I’m not marriage material and I don’t do complicated.’”

Yep, he’d said that. “At that point, I really was thinking with my…” He glanced down. “You know what.”

“And you’re not anymore?”

“Not entirely.” Of course, he’d do his level best not to be a complete asshole about the whole thing, but he had to work in certain parameters: He couldn’t hint at the truth and he had to work fast.

He lifted his glass. “Let’s toast, Tessa.”

“I will not drink to a future,” she said dryly. “But I will drink to a man who knows his way around a good line.”

“It’s not a line,” he said softly. “But if it will make you give me a chance, I’ll drink to something less intimidating than the future. How about we drink to a fresh start?”

“Your new job?”

“And our new”—he dinged the glass and went with it—“romance.”

She smiled as she brought the glass to her mouth, sipping a little, but laughing more.

“What? We can’t have a romance?”

“It’s old-fashioned,” she said. “And sounds incredibly out of place on a man who has horror-movie tattoos and is built like a human lethal weapon.”

“Hey, I flounced, remember?”

She laughed again, already a wee bit more relaxed, and it was too soon to be the wine. All very encouraging, plus she was even prettier when her shoulders weren’t so taut and her smile didn’t waver.

“Give me a shot, Tessa. That’s all I’m asking for.”

“A shot at what? To do something about how affected you are?”

“Absolutely not.” Okay, that sounded ridiculous. “Well, of course I’m physically invested, but—”

She lifted a brow. “Who says things like ‘physically invested’?”

A guy who went to Cambridge and studied economics. He’d better watch the wine and be damned careful. Nothing got by this woman. “I’m trying to impress you.”

“It’s working.”

“Really?” He grinned. “Good.”

“Finish your thought,” she said. “There was a ‘but’ at the end of that sentence.”

Indeed there was. “I’m attracted to you, but”—he squeezed her hand—“I don’t want this to be a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am kind of deal.”

The smile morphed into a dubious frown. “You sure wanted to wham and bam when I met you in the bar.”

“Consider the setting,” he said quickly. “We’re colleagues now. Are you that jaded that you can’t believe a man could be interested in something more than sex?”

“I’m not jaded, I’m…” She laughed and sipped the wine. “Hell, yeah, I’m jaded.”

“Never been in a serious relationship?”

She almost choked on the drink. “I was married ten years.”

“Really?” It was his turn to be taken aback. She’d been married? She’d been down the aisle and on a honeymoon and shared a name—like he had? For some reason that tipped him a little bit off balance.

“Why are you so shocked?”

He shook his head. “I had the impression you were more or less committed to being single.”

She eased her hand out of his when bruschetta and tapenade were served, both of them taking a second to inhale the aroma of roasted garlic and chopped olives. Ian could make this dish in his sleep, and he almost told her, but didn’t want to get the conversation offtrack. He was much more interested in her ten-year marriage.

For some reason, that changed everything. He wasn’t sure how or why.

He waited for her to take some bread and add the topping before asking, “What happened, if you don’t mind me prying.”

“I don’t mind.” She toyed with the bruschetta, thinking. “I guess the answer to that depends on who you ask.”

“I’m asking you.”

She cast her eyes down. “He had an affair and she got pregnant.”

“Ouch.”

“After ten years of our trying and failing to have a baby.”

Oh, bollocks. “That had to hurt.”

“It sucked, I’m not going to lie. We had spent a decade desperately trying to get pregnant, traveling the world to start organic farms, growing everything but”—she gave a wry smile—“the one thing I wanted to grow the most.”

As she talked, guilt twisted his gut. He was no better than the dickhead who’d dumped her for a baby maker. He was just a dickhead who would dump her after he used her to get his own children back.

He longed for a deep drink of wine but toyed with the stemmed glass instead, listening. She told her story slowly, as if she were in her garden and could pick only the best words. Didn’t matter what words she used; it wasn’t a nice story. A hopeful wife, a cheating husband, a broken heart, a single woman.

And what a lovely chapter he planned to add to her life. A lying bastard.

Self-contempt rolled through him like the aftereffects of the wine he’d yet to drink.

“However, as you know…” She finally took the time to look him right in the eyes. “I don’t intend to let that stop me from having a child.”

And there was that little complication. “You, uh, mentioned that the other night.”

“And that sent you running as fast as whatever it was in the kitchen this morning.” She eyed him suspiciously. “Giving me the impression that you, John Brown, are a runner. Or at least a drifter. Definitely not a man interested in”—she launched one eyebrow north—“settling down.”

Such a smart, smart woman. “People change,” he said.

She let out a heartfelt laugh, tipping her head back enough to tease him with the hollow of her throat. “Nobody changes that fast.”

“You don’t know that,” he said, knowing how flimsy that defense sounded. He had made a blatant play for sex the other night, and he had bolted the minute she’d asked him anything more than his name in a job interview.

And really, from that moment on, he’d been lying to her in one way or another. So why was he having such a hard time now? Because this woman was tender and vulnerable and so unsuspecting. She had needs and wants, but—

A thought played in his head. Tessa wanted a baby. Why didn’t he just cut a deal? Marry me for reasons you never need to know and I’ll give you sperm for a baby I never need to know.

Except she’d need to know the reasons.

And he’d need to know the baby.

“You’re awfully quiet,” she said, resting her chin on her knuckles. “Still thinking about a future now that you know a little more about me?”

It would be so easy to promise her that baby—or that baby-making juice she’d mentioned the other night. And all she had to do was marry him. “Yes, I am,” he admitted. “I’m thinking about it more than ever.”

Her shoulders dropped as she exhaled long and slow, as if she’d been holding her breath the entire dinner. “Well, then…” She lifted her glass as if to make a toast. “Why don’t you tell me everything about you? That is, assuming you can do it and not run out of this restaurant and leave me for the third time.”

But this time, he couldn’t run. He wouldn’t. He had to go forth with this plan.

“Everything?” He lifted his glass and let it ding the rim of hers. “All right, here goes.”

Let the lies begin in earnest.