Something Different/Pepper's Way Page 3

  Gypsy was aware of the hazy certainty that she should stop this. Yes. Stop it, she thought. But she couldn’t even find the strength to open her eyes, realizing only then that they were closed.

  Stop it. In a moment….

  The stinging little fire wasn’t so little anymore. It was a writhing thing now, scorching nerve endings and boiling the blood in her veins. She could feel her heart pound with all the wild unreason of a captive beast, and it terrified her with its savage rhythm.

  She was dimly aware of drawing a shuddering breath when Chase finally released her. Her hands fell limply to her sides and then reached back to clutch at the edge of the desk she was leaning weakly against. Wood. Solid wood, she assured herself. Reality.

  She stared at him with stunned, disbelieving eyes, only partially aware that his breathing was as ragged as hers and that the jade eyes held the same expression of bemused shock as her own.

  Chase lifted his wineglass and drained it very scientifically. “Scratch one casual friendship,” he muttered hoarsely.

  Gypsy immediately shook her head. “Oh, no,” she began.

  “I’ve been wanting to do that,” he interrupted musingly, “ever since you told me about coffee on Tuesday.”

  She blinked and then fiercely gathered her scattered wits. “No, Chase,” she said flatly. “No involvement.”

  “Too late.”

  Hanging on to the desk as if to a lifeline, she shook her head silently, ignoring the sneering little voice inside her head that was agreeing with his comment.

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m not strong enough to fight,” he said wryly.

  Gypsy silently ordered the little voice to shut up and took hold of her willpower with both hands. “No involvement,” she repeated slowly.

  He gazed at her with a disconcerting speculation. “I’m reasonably sure it isn’t me,” he observed, “so what is it?”

  For the first time her small work area was giving Gypsy a claustrophobic feeling, and she pushed away from the desk to wander out into the den. She sat down rather bonelessly on a handy chair and watched as Chase followed her into the main part of the room. Since he had a somewhat determined expression on his face, she searched hastily for words.

  “Gypsy—”

  “Chase, I— Oh, hell.” She decided on honesty. “Chase, I’ve never… slept with a man before.”

  “You haven’t?” Something unreadable flickered in his eyes.

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  She bit back a giggle, her sense of humor abruptly easing the tension in her body. “A girl used to have to explain why she did; now she has to explain why she doesn’t.”

  “The times they are a changin’,” he murmured.

  “Uh-huh.” She gave him a wry look. “Look, I’ve spent most of my life traveling, which isn’t exactly conducive to lasting relationships. Summer flings and one-night stands hold no appeal for me. It’s got nothing to do with morality, it’s just me. In spite of my footloose life-style, I’m the home and hearth type at heart.”

  “A ring and a promise?”

  Gypsy shook her head patiently. “That’s just it: I don’t want to get married.”

  Chase sank down in a chair across from hers and peered at her bemusedly “You’ve just done an about-face here, haven’t you?”

  “Not at all. I’m trying to make a point. The only relationship acceptable to me would be a lasting relationship with one man—which, to my mind, means marriage. But at this point in my life I don’t want to get married. So … no relationship.”

  “No involvement,” he murmured.

  Gypsy felt an enormous sense of relief when he seemed to understand. She also felt oddly disappointed. The resulting confusion left her unusually nervous. What on earth was wrong with her? She had a book to write, and heaven knew that would occupy her for weeks. Why this sudden wish that she had not voiced her “no involvement” policy. Policy? That made her sound like a politician!

  “You never gave me an answer.”

  “What?” She stared at him, trying in vain to read his expression. “Dinner? I… can’t. I have a deadline, and I need to organize my notes and get to work.”

  “You have to eat.”

  “Yes, well….” She produced a weak smile from somewhere. “If you’ll take a close look at my typewriter, you’ll probably find crumbs inside. I usually eat right over the keyboard.”

  “You’ll get ulcers eating like that,” he warned dryly.

  Gypsy shrugged and murmured vaguely, “Deadlines, you know.” She hoped that she’d given him the impression her deadline was considerably closer than it actually was. Little white lies never hurt anyone, she reasoned and, besides, she needed time to figure out what was wrong with her.

  Along those lines she abruptly changed the subject. “Did you design your house?”

  Chase didn’t even blink; apparently he was getting accustomed to her conversational leaps. “Yes. Like it?”

  “It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen anything like it. Did you design it especially for yourself, or did you just decide afterward that it was for you?”

  “It was mine all the way. Shall we talk of cabbages and kings now?” he added politely, doing a bit of conversational leaping of his own.

  Gypsy sighed. It was not, she reflected, going to be easy for her to hold her own with this man. He seemed to be extremely adaptable. As unusual as she obviously was in his experience, he had learned quickly how not to be thrown off balance by her. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You know. Can you cook?” he asked abruptly.

  He was using her own tactics on her, damn him! Gypsy sighed again and mentally threw up her hands in surrender. For the time being, at least. “No, I can’t cook. Also I can’t sew, and I hate washing dishes.” If she’d hoped to discourage him with these admissions of unfemininity she was defeated.

  “Nobody’s perfect. What’s your favorite meal?”

  “Spaghetti.”

  “My speciality. What time would you like to eat?”

  Gypsy decided that either the wine, the kiss, or both had addled her wits; otherwise she’d be a lot sharper than she seemed to be at the moment. Was he or wasn’t he riding roughshod over all her objections? “I’m working, I told you.”

  “You have to eat. I’ll do the cooking. My place or yours?”

  With some vague idea of having the home-team advantage, she said, “Mine. Can you really cook?” She was suddenly dimly astonished to realize that she’d just let him ride roughshod over all her objections.

  “They teach you to at military schools,” he answered absently, his mind obviously on something else.

  “You went to military schools?”

  “Grew up in them.” Gypsy had his full attention now. “My father hoped I’d go on to West Point, but I had other plans.”

  She’d had little experience with father-son relationships, but she was apparently the type of person that others invariably confided in, so she’d heard many tragic stories resulting from conflicts over career choices. Chase certainly didn’t look to be the victim of a tragedy, but her ready sympathy was nonetheless stirred.

  “Was he… very upset?” she probed delicately.

  “He wasn’t happy,” Chase replied wryly. “I told him I was getting even for all those lonely years spent in military schools.”

  “Oh, poor little boy!” she said involuntarily. To her surprise Chase flushed slightly. But there was a considering expression in his jade eyes.

  “If I were an unscrupulous man, I’d take advantage of your obvious sympathy,” he told her gravely. “However, since the last thing I want to do is to begin our… friendship with a lie, I’ll confess that my childhood wasn’t in the least deprived.”

  “It wasn’t?”

  “Hell, no.” He smiled at her. “The schools were good ones, I had plenty of friends, and Dad visited frequently. He always came and whisked me away to whatever post he happened to be at for holidays and vaca
tions. I was a seasoned world traveler by the age of twelve.”

  Gypsy had to admit that it didn’t sound sad, but she was still puzzled. Chase calmly enlightened her.

  “My mother died when I was five, and Dad couldn’t very well drag me all over the world with him. More often than not, he was assigned a post squarely in the middle of some revolution. So I went to boarding schools, where I learned to pick up my socks and cook spaghetti. Good enough?”

  She nodded slowly. “Sorry to be nosy.”

  “Not at all. I’m glad you’re interested. It’ll be my turn to hear your life story tonight.” He held up a hand when she would have spoken. “Fair trade. And I have to hear more about your parents. What time shall we have dinner?”

  She stared at his politely inquiring face for a long moment. “About seven. I guess,” she added rather hastily, deciding that she was giving in too damn quickly.

  “Fine. I’ll come over around six and bring the fixings with me.” He rose to his feet and made a slight gesture when she would have got up. “Don’t bother. I think I can find the door. See you at six. Oh, and keep looking for that insurance card, will you?”

  Gypsy gazed after him, and she felt a sudden pang. Not a pang of uneasiness or uncertainty, but one of sheer panic.

  I don’t know about you, but I’m not strong enough to fight.

  Reluctantly she allowed her mind to relive that…kiss. Kiss? God! Vesuvius erupting had nothing on that “kiss,” Gypsy thought. She had never in her life been shaken like that. And Chase had made no secret of the fact that it had shaken him as well.

  And that meant trouble with a capital everything.

  She rubbed absently at the sudden gooseflesh on her arms, wondering at the inexplicable caprices of fate. Her life was going so smoothly! And she didn’t want the status quo to change… not now. Her writing produced enough upheaval for any sane person; asking for more was like asking for a ringside seat at the hurricane of the century.

  By the time Chase knocked on her door at six on the dot, Gypsy had come no nearer to an answer. She’d had several hours to think and in all that time, her thoughts had turned continually to that kiss.

  She knew that her peculiar life-style and offbeat habits had caused her to miss a lot. She had friends, but not close ones. During high school and college, she’d indulged in the normal sexual experimentation, but a natural unconformity had kept her safe from peer pressure. And she hadn’t cared for any man enough to attempt the serious relationship that her own private ideals demanded.

  But she had convinced herself over the years that the only things she had missed by her celibacy had been vulnerability and potential heartache. And she knew from experience that it demanded a rare and extremely adaptable person to survive— happily—living with her. To date only Amy, her housekeeper and mother hen, had managed the feat.

  Not even her loving and uncritical parents, unusual themselves, had been able to live with their daughter once she’d reached adulthood. And if they couldn’t do it, what chance had the sane, normal man? Gypsy wondered.

  So when she opened the door to let Chase in at six, she was staunchly determined to nip any romantic overtures in the bud. After which, according to all the books on etiquette, the noble warrior would retire from the field in dignified defeat.

  The problem was … Chase apparently intended to retire from the field only if carried off on his shield.

  “Did you find it?” he asked cheerfully.

  Belatedly shutting the door behind him and hurrying down the hall to keep up with his tall form, Gypsy struggled briefly to figure out what he was talking about. “The insurance card? Yes, I found it.” She followed him into the modern kitchen, reflecting absently that he looked really good in jeans. “It was in Corsair’s envelope.”

  “Corsair’s what?” He paused in unloading a bulging grocery bag onto the deep orange countertop, looking at her blankly.

  Gypsy was staring at his T-shirt and trying not to giggle. Obviously he wasn’t as conservative as she’d first thought. The T-shirt read: THIS IS A MOVING VIOLATION. Above the words was a picture of a leering man chasing an obviously delighted and sketchily dressed woman.

  Trying to keep her voice steady, Gypsy finally replied to his question. “Corsair’s envelope. You know, where I keep his vet records.”

  “Oh. I won’t ask what it was doing there.” He went back to unloading the groceries.

  “Uh…” She gestured slightly. “Nice shirt.”

  “Thank you. Is it too subtle, do you think?”

  “Depends.”

  “On what?” He looked at her with innocent mischief in his eyes.

  “On whether it’s a declaration of intent.”

  “Bite your tongue.” He looked wounded. “I would never be so crass.”

  Gypsy wasn’t about to ask what the shirt was if it wasn’t a declaration of intent. She decided to leave the question of subtlety up in the air for the time being.

  Chase was looking her up and down, considering. “You look very nice,” he commented, eyeing her neat jeans and short-sleeved knit top. “But what’s this?” he asked, reaching out to pluck a pair of dark-rimmed glasses from the top of her head.

  “They’re working glasses.” She reclaimed them and placed them back on top of her head. “To help prevent eyestrain, according to the doctor.”

  “Oh.” Chase removed the glasses from the top of her head and placed them on her nose. He studied the effect for a moment while she frowned at him, then said, “They make you look very professorial.”

  She pushed them back up and said briefly, “They make me look like an owl. If you want me to help cook, by the way, the consequences will rest on your head.”

  Chase accepted the abrupt change of subject without a blink. “You get to watch the master chef at work. Sit on that stool over there.”

  Gypsy debated about whether or not to dig in her heels. “Those military schools didn’t help your personality,” she offered finally in a deceptively mild voice.

  “I take it you dislike being ordered around.”

  “Bingo.”

  “Will you please sit on that stool, Miss Taylor, so that I can demonstrate my culinary skill before your discerning eye?”

  “Better,” she approved, going over to sit on the high stool.

  “Trying to reform a man is the first sign of possessiveness, you know.” He was unloading the bag again.

  “I’ve taught manners to quite a few children,” she responded politely, refusing to be drawn.

  “Really? How did that come about?” Chase was busily locating what he needed in cabinets and drawers. “I assumed you didn’t have any siblings.”

  “You assumed correctly.” Gypsy reflected wryly that he had a disconcerting habit of dangling a line her way and then abruptly cutting bait when she ignored it. “But I like kids, so I usually find a nursery school or kindergarten wherever I’m living and volunteer to help out a couple of days a week.”

  “So you like kids, eh?” He sent a speculative glance at her as he began to place hamburger in a pan for browning. “I’ll bet you’d eventually like to have a houseful of your own.”

  “You’d lose the bet. I’d make a lousy mother; I’m not planning on having kids at all.”

  Chase halted his preparations long enough to give her a surprised look. “Why do you think you’d make a lousy mother? Your ‘gypsy’ life-style?”

  She shook her head. “I grew up that way, and it didn’t bother me. No, it’s my writing. Some authors work nine to five with nights and weekends off, just like an average job.” She smiled wryly. “And then there’s me. When I’m working, it’s usually in twelve- to fourteen-hour stretches. For weeks at a time. I lose pounds and sleep… and sometimes friends. I swear and throw things and pace the floor. Corsair, poor baby, has to remind me to feed him.” Her smile unconsciously turned a bit wistful. “What kind of life would that be for kids?”

  Chase was watching her with an expression that was curiously
still. After a moment he shook his head as if to throw off a disturbing thought. When he spoke, it was about her work habits, and not about her decision not to have children. “Aren’t you afraid of burning yourself out?”

  “Not really.” She spoke soberly. “Notice that I said when I’m working. I usually take a break of several weeks between books. I’m healthy and happy—so where’s the harm?”

  He shook his head again—this time in obvious impatience. “You need someone to take care of you.”

  “I have someone to take care of me—my housekeeper, Amy. The hamburger’s burning.”

  Turning swiftly back to the stove, Chase swore softly. He repaired the results of his inattention silently, then said, “Tell me about your parents. Your mother first; I have to hear about the creator of coffee on Tuesday.”

  “You’re hung up on that.” Gypsy sighed. “Well, Mother is an artist—very vague, very creative. She’s also a spotless housekeeper, which drives both Poppy and me absolutely nuts; he and I share an extremely untidy nature.” She sought about in her mind for a further description of her mother. “Mother is … Mother. She’s hard to describe.”

  “An artist? Would I have heard of her?”

  “Know anything about art?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’ve heard of her. Rebecca Thorn.”

  Chase nearly got his thumb with the knife he was chopping onions with. “Good Lord! Of course I’ve heard of her.” Staring at Gypsy, he nearly got his forefinger with the knife. “You come from a very illustrious family.”

  “You haven’t heard the half of it.”

  “Your father too?”

  “Uh-huh. You’d have to be a scientist to recognize his name though. He’s a physicist. Disappears periodically and can’t talk about his work.” She reflected for a moment. “Poppy looks like the typical absentminded professor. He’s soft-spoken, very distinguished, and wouldn’t pick up a sock if it were made of solid gold.”