Baby Fever

“Good night again,” he said as he started to move past her in the narrow confines of the hallway, brushing against her and smiling.

Relieved, she concentrated on the sensation of his body skimming hers, then he stopped, pressed her against the wall and kissed her. Not a hard, quick kiss but a gentle merging of lips and breath, a kiss meant to entice. A kiss that started at their mouths but flowed the way of hot, thick, maple syrup over pancakes, down, around and through her body, saturating her with sweetness and temptation.

He settled his hands at her waist; hers glided up his chest. He slid his hands over her rear and pulled her closer; hers slipped behind his back to curve over his shoulder blades, bringing their chests as close as their hips. His tongue swept her lips then dipped inside her mouth. Was that sound coming from her? God, he was so warm, so very warm.

He lifted his head and stood in silence until she opened her eyes. She saw that his smile was gone, replaced with an intense expression she could put no name to.

“What you have to understand, Jasmine, is that seemingly is your operative word. A man can be seemingly nice. Then again, he may be an expert at pulling the wool over the eyes of unsuspecting women. It’s probably better that you continue to feel contempt for all men than to trust any of us individually. You might end up lonely as hell, but you’ll find comfort in the knowledge you’re right, I’m sure.”

He strode away from her as she wilted against the wall and closed her eyes, blocking her final glimpse of him.

She wouldn’t look, not yet, Jasmine decided as she continued serving the party of eight. From the corner of her eye she could see J.D. leading a single customer to a booth in her section, the same booth where Patrick had sat the previous two nights. Patrick, who had given her hope before her foolish words had sounded a death knell to her dream, mournfully, dolorously, plaintively.

Yet a small part of her still clung to a fragment of hope that he was a man who didn’t give up easily.

She held her breath as she tucked her tray under one arm and casually, almost carelessly, glanced at the lone man…with the fringe of shockingly white hair.

I am not going to cry. Again and again she repeated the order as she slipped into the kitchen and busied herself by slicing bread and building two salads.

“Why’d you put ten dollars in the jar?” Maggie asked, coming up beside her. She leaned a hip against the stainless-steel counter. “Crime and punishment?”

“It was the tip he left last night. I couldn’t keep it, so you might as well add it to your dress fund.”

“He really got to you, didn’t he, Jazz? In a way that no man has, not in a long time.”

Jasmine scooped dressing on the salad. “You’d think I would have learned with Deacon, wouldn’t you?”

Maggie made a crude noise. “You can’t compare Deacon with anyone.”

“Rich is rich. Power is power. I’m not blaming Patrick, you understand. It was my fault entirely. But I was foolish to think for even a minute a man like that might want me. In the end, I’m glad he overheard. Better to kill the possibilities now than later, I think.”

“But some part of you wants the fairy tale.”

“I’m human,” Jasmine said, forcing the words past a lump burning her throat. “But if I really do want to have a relationship with a man again, I need to look at my own kind. Someone from the diner, instead of here.”

Maggie raised her brows. “From the sublime to the ridiculous. The people you meet at that afternoon job of yours swing to the other side of the pendulum, don’t you think? And since when did you start defining yourself by your job? You’re smart, you’re beautiful, and any man would be lucky to have you, especially your Patrick-the-gorgeous-hunk-of-masculinity.”

Jasmine hugged her sister. “Have I told you lately how much I love you? For all that I resented Mom getting married again and having a baby when I was ten, you were the best thing that happened in my life.” She stepped back and moved to the sink to wash her hands.

“What’s weighing on you, Jazz?” Maggie asked softly, following her. “I can’t remember seeing you this emotional since—”

Jasmine let out a shaky laugh. “Don’t mind me. I’m ovulating.”

“You mean, PMS’ing.”

Jasmine shrugged, then lifted the salads onto her tray, choosing to forget her problems by working harder than usual. She kept up a constant dialogue with customers, drawing Maggie’s curious looks as she laughed, sometimes a little too boisterously. She would not cower. She would not grieve. She would continue to be strong and independent and—

Oh, God, and childless.

Midnight came. She changed into a sweater, jeans and tennis shoes for the walk home. Usually J.D. played bodyguard, but he had a late date. The problem with living only four blocks from work was that it was too close to justify a cab ride, and waiting at a bus stop seemed more dangerous than walking.

She stepped out into the night and glanced at the sky, sensing imminent rain. In a way she welcomed it, because it kept some of the crazies off the street. She could make a dash for home without looking around every bend and within every doorway. Cursing her all-day distraction, which had resulted in her forgetting her windbreaker, she folded her arms across her stomach, put her head down and began walking against the wind.

Up the concrete walkway she hurried, then out the gate with its discreet wrought-iron C, identifying the club to its members. She latched the gate and turned in the direction of her apartment. A man blocked her path. Knowing instinctively who stood there, she slowly lifted her gaze, taking in the look-alike wardrobe of sweater and jeans. His expression broadcasted his reluctance to be there, as did his words.

“I tried to stay away.”

Four (#ulink_3009f786-5f7e-5238-bcb6-cd6d25715505)

Patrick lifted a hand to her cheek and felt her shiver from the touch of his icy skin. He’d been waiting for almost an hour. Perhaps waiting wasn’t the right word. He’d walked past the building then returned three times, not wanting to see her, not being able to keep his distance.

“Jasmine.” Her name sound magical and mysterious to him, conjuring up visions he should probably ignore. “Did you mean what you said last night?”

She looked away from him and sighed. “Yes and no.”

“Meaning?” Somehow her hands had settled within his and her warmth radiated to him.

“What I said to Maggie was just automatic reaction. It didn’t really pertain to you in particular.”

“You’ve been hurt before.”

“Haven’t we all?”

“But you more than most, I think.”

She shrugged one shoulder, and he focused on their joined hands, feeling her anticipation as she waited to learn what he wanted from her.

“I’m not making any promises—”

“I don’t want promises, Patrick.”

“I just want to spend some time with you. You can’t imagine the loneliness.” The nights are long and scary, he wanted to tell her. I lie awake listening to my heartbeat, and sometimes it feels like it stops.

“Yes, I can,” she whispered. “Oh, yes, I can.”

He heard it in her voice, too—loss and longing. “Night Flower,” he said softly, “will you spend an hour with me?”

She rubbed the bridge of her nose in a nervous gesture. “I could use some warming up.”

He leaned a little to block the rain from her face as it began to fall. The wind howled. “What’s open around here where we could get coffee?”

“Do you have a coffee maker in your hotel room?”

Surprised, he focused his gaze intently on her. “Yes,” he answered slowly. “And a fireplace. Two, as a matter of fact.”

“Sounds good to me.”

If it hadn’t been pouring he would have made her be specific about what she expected of him. But first he needed to get them out of the rain.