Balancing Act

chapter Five


Rita awakened, stretching languorously beneath the butterfly sheets. Her first conscious thought was that something so good had to be right. As he had promised, Twigg hadn’t left until she was asleep, nestled in the comfort of her own dreams. She lay quietly, allowing her thoughts to soar back to the night before. A warm flush worked its way up to her face. Making love in the woods in the middle of the night with a man she had known less than three days. In pine needles, no less! That was something Rachel would do!

She touched her flushed cheeks, felt how warm they were. Then she explored her nakedness beneath the sheets. Were her breasts fuller somehow? They were certainly more sensitive. She felt warm and wet between her legs. That was different too. She had just been starting to think of herself as “dried up,” a term she had often heard her mother use after menopause. Menopause! Christ, she wasn’t menopausal yet! And she wasn’t on the pill! “Oh, no,” she moaned, turning her face into the pillow. What was it her mother had said? Only the good girls get caught. The bad ones are too smart. Another moan of horror. Rita had always thought of herself as a good girl. No. She wasn’t going to think about it, but she wasn’t going to be a fool either. She liked making love with Twigg, and if he’d have her again, she’d gladly share her bed with him. She would do what the big girls did, what Rachel had been doing since she was seventeen years old. Birth control. Sensible. Easy. Certainly practical.

Squeezing her eyes shut against the morning light, she threw her arms up over her head. Practical! If she had been practical, she never would have become Twigg’s lover.

Lover! Was that what she was now? She blushed. Imagine me, Rita Bellamy, a lover!

Her body felt a renewed bite of desire as she remembered the night before in Twigg’s arms. He had loved her, totally, completely. Seeming to enjoy it. No, not seeming. He had enjoyed it! She knew from the way he touched her, kissed her, loved her. Why should she doubt him now? Just because he had admitted to her that he was finding staying in the Johnson cottage intolerably lonely? There were plenty of girls in town, and with his charm and good looks it wouldn’t be difficult to persuade someone to share his bed. Girls. Is that how she had thought of herself, just for an instant? The Women’s Liberation Movement would be aghast to know that she, Rita Bellamy, nearly forty-four years old, had thought of herself as a girl. As they would have it, from the age of five on, the members of the female sex were supposed to think of themselves as women.

That was just plain stupid. Of course she was a woman, but was it so wrong to admit, even for a moment, that within her nearly forty-four-year-old breast beat the heart of a sixteen-year-old girl? That she could feel a hunger for a man just by remembering the feel of his hands on her flesh and the sound of his voice in her ear as he told her how beautiful she was, how desirable he found her? No, it wasn’t stupid, it was delicious, and she was going to enjoy it for all it was worth.

For the entire time she was in Twigg’s arms she forgot about the age difference and the midriff bulge and the not-so-firm breasts. But now, suddenly, in the full light of day, those same fears came back to punish her. What was Twigg thinking, feeling? She wished she knew. She groaned and rolled over in the bed. How empty it was. A smile tugged at her mouth. She would take a bed of pine needles any day of the week. If he had said she was lovely, desirable, then she was. Period. And she wouldn’t spoil it all by thinking she had made a fool of herself. All she wanted to think about was how his eyes had greedily devoured her and how his hands and body had reminded her she was a woman.

She moved beneath the sheets, feeling the ache and soreness in her thighs. It was a good ache, a good soreness, proof that she had not dreamed last night but had actually lived it.

Touching herself, she smoothed the flat of her hand over her belly and downward. He had said she was beautiful there. His words came back to her, his voice, the sound of his whisper, shooting new thrills and excitement through her.

He had stayed awake, caressing her, loving her, until she had been the first to fall asleep. And she had slept in the crook of his arm, feeling completely at ease as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

The ticking of the clock invaded her reverie. Glancing at the clock, she realized it was nearly nine o’clock! There was a spring in her step when she bounded out of bed and headed for the shower. That certainly was a positive. She hadn’t bounded out of bed since Charles was seven years old and had croup in the middle of the night.

No breakfast this morning. Quickly, she towel dried herself and dressed in dark slacks and a shirt of watermelon cotton. She had invited Twigg for lunch. She was behind in her work and Ian was due this evening. God, she was going to have to hustle if she was to get anything done. Tuna for lunch. If it was good enough for her, it would be good enough for Twigg. She fished around in the freezer for a package of chicken and set it to thaw on the sink. Ian liked broiled chicken in lemon and butter.

Cigarette in one hand, coffee in the other, Rita stared at the computer screen. Don’t fail me now, she pleaded. Don’t make me regret last night. With all her willpower she forced her mind back in time to the seventeenth century and the Dutch East India Company and the trouble she had created for her characters. Today she was going to have them set sail for Sumatra and be hijacked by marauding pirates. She had to concentrate and make sure there were no loose ends anywhere. Imagination, go to work, she ordered as she turned the computer on.

Nearly two hours later she broke for a cigarette and another cup of coffee. Work was going well. She could spare the ten minutes to shift into neutral and rub her aching shoulders. She could feel the tenseness and the expectation as the hands on her watch crawled closer to the time Twigg would arrive for lunch. One o’clock she had said. It was barely eleven now. She had plenty of time before she had to make up the tuna salad.





Lunch was enjoyable. They sat in Rita’s copper and brick kitchen with the new hanging fern in complete contentment. There was none of the awkwardness that Rita had feared, no gaps in the conversation. Instead, there had been smiling eye contact, shared laughter, and hearty appetites. It was Rita who glanced at her watch and signaled that lunch was over. Twigg obliged by getting up, kissing her soundly on the mouth. “I have to know something, Rita,” he said seriously. “Was there any time last night when you thought about those twelve years? The truth now.”

Rita grinned. “Not one minute. If you find yourself at loose ends tonight and want to take a break, why don’t you come by and meet Ian? I’m sure he’ll enjoy meeting you and you’ll have lots in common. Maybe he can even find a market for your articles. Don’t feel you have to come; it’s an invitation, pure and simple.”

Twigg loped back to his cottage, his steps springy and buoyant. Damn, he felt good. Rita made him feel good. At lunch she had been so helpful when he discussed his work with her, suggesting he might approach the article from a different point of view.

Perhaps he would walk over to meet Ian Martin, if only to see what he was like. In his gut he knew the friend-agent had more than a professional interest in Rita. It was obvious the way she talked about him. Yes, he would like to meet the man. Ian Martin would have to be a blind fool not to see Rita for the woman she was: talented, interesting, beautiful.

Leaning against the porch rail, his tall, lean frame striking an angular pose, Twigg tamped and lit his pipe. She had the clearest blue eyes he had ever seen. And she loved the sea, she had told him. And talking to her, discussing things with her, was enlightening, challenging. That was one lady who had an opinion, but unlike others he had known, she was also willing to see the other side.

Drawing on the pipe, the pungent smoke filling his mouth, his thoughts went back to the night before, as they had through most of the day. Rita Bellamy, woman, writer, beautiful lover. She had a way of making a man feel cherished. He laughed. It even sounded silly to him that a man would need cherishing; that was something women said they wanted from a man. But a man needed it too, needed to feel important and worthy. He could still almost feel the tenderness of her soft arms as they surrounded him, bringing him to her, welcoming him. There was an honesty about her, sharp and clear, with none of the calculating withholding he had experienced so many times before. She was exciting and stimulating and downright sexy. And yet, she was vulnerable too, and he supposed that was what made her seem so young to him, with a special brand of innocence that was lost to most women before they hit twenty.

Twigg frowned. He was thirty-two years old, and to all intents and purposes, completely alone in the world. He had friends, certainly, but no family of which to speak. It had occurred to him that a wife and children would ease this particular sense of aloneness, and yet he knew it was not the answer. Not for him, at any rate. He had never met a woman he wanted to marry, and he never considered his bloodline so superior that he wanted to propagate it. His work, his friends, and now Rita. That was all he needed. Good, better, best.



Ian Martin arrived shortly before seven o’clock. Rita heard his car in the drive and quickly switched off her computer. He would have no complaints with the work she was to deliver to her editor. She had caught up, for the most part, and if she started early in the morning, she would definitely meet her deadline.

Ian Martin was a tall and distinguished-looking man in his early fifties. A widower with married children. He carried a bottle of wine, a briefcase, and a bedraggled bouquet of daisies.

“They were fresh when I left the city.” He laughed as he kissed Rita lightly on the mouth. He stood back to survey his client and felt a frown pucker his face. She was lovely, vibrant, with a new and curious glow about her. She wore her beige silk blouse open at the neck, all the way down to the shadowy cleavage between her breasts. The taupe skirt was cut slimly with a daring slash halfway up her thigh. Heeled shoes, sheer hose, and jewelry! He smiled at her a trifle nervously, wondering what she had done to herself. Where were her blue denim jeans and sweatshirt and run-down sneakers? The uniform she had adopted these last two years. He hadn’t seen her looking this smart since before her divorce.

“It’s good to see you, Ian. How are things back in the big city?” she asked warmly as she embraced him.

“Not much different from the last time I saw you. Life does go on in publishing. My firm has taken on several new clients, and we have great hopes for a movie deal for one of them. I also brought your last royalty statement with me. It’s a good one and I banked the money for you.”

Following her through the living room into the kitchen where he struggled with the cork in the bottle of wine, he was surprised when Rita turned to him, touched him on the arm and said softly, “Ian, you’ve been an excellent friend and business manager, but it’s time for me to begin handling my own affairs.”

He looked shocked, his hazel eyes narrowing as though trying to see through to her reason. Gently, she calmed him. “Ian, dear, please don’t misunderstand. It is simply that I believe it’s time for me to involve myself in my own finances and certainly time I involved myself in life again. I want to try my own wings.” She laughed, quickly softening the statement. “Of course, I would always hope you were waiting to catch me should I begin to fall. I’ve become too dependent on you, and in many ways I’ve taken advantage of you. I don’t want the time to come when you begin to resent me as a burden.”

“Rita, darling,” he murmured, pulling her into his embrace. “As if I could ever resent you. Surely, you know how much you mean to me. I love doing for you.”

She was aware of the scent of his expensive cologne, the smoothness of his cheek as he pressed it against her brow. He must have used his battery-powered electric shaver on the drive up. Dear, fastidious Ian. So concerned with outward appearances. “Have I told you how lovely you look this evening,” he said in a deep, intimate tone. “It’s time you came out of that shell you built around yourself and remembered the woman you are.”

Deftly, Rita extracted herself from his embrace, making a great fuss of selecting glasses for the wine. “You’re right, Ian, it is time I crept out of my shell. That’s one of the reasons I feel I must take over my own affairs.” She meant her words to be strong, but she heard the softness in her tone, the vaguest hint of a whine and cajoling. She hated herself for it. Damn, wasn’t she entitled to make her own decisions concerning the money she earned? She would like to try her hand at a little high finance, as Brett called it. Why did she always need someone to do it for her?

“Remember that tax-free fund I told you about several months back?” Ian poured the wine as he spoke; she watched the bold onyx ring on his pinky finger reflect the light. Hadn’t he heard what she had said? Was he going to ignore her?

“I remember,” she lied. Several months back she was hardly interested in tax-free funds or anything else, for that matter

“The time seemed right to buy and I did. Several more opportunities like that and you’ll make a handsome living just from the interest you earn.”

Rita was puzzled. “How . . . I mean, wasn’t I supposed to sign something?”

Ian laughed, amused, as though she were a little, precocious child. “You don’t have to bother your head about things like that. Remember, that’s why you signed a power of attorney over to me. That tax-free fund was quite a coup, I can tell you that.... What’s the problem, Rita? Am I mistaken or did you not tell me you had no interest in financial matters?”

“No, you’re right, Ian. I did tell you that.” Soberly, she sipped the wine, finding it tasted acid on her tongue. She had told him she wanted nothing to do with the financial end. Suddenly, she realized why. It wasn’t that she didn’t consider herself capable; after all, throughout her marriage she had been the one to manage the checking account, pay the bills, sock away a little fund for vacations. No, it wasn’t that she felt inadequate. After all, Ian’s prestigious firm had not always been her agent. She hadn’t signed with the Ian Martin Agency until she was a fully established author. In the beginning she had been the only one to decide upon contracts, payments, royalty rates, always keeping her eye on the market and delivering books that were salable and in keeping with the readers’ wants and likes. She had decided whether or not she could devote periods of time, her life, actually, to fulfill a contract. And if it happened to be the wrong choice for her, she had lived with it anyway and learned from it.

Rather, her sudden dislike for finances coincided with the trouble in her marriage. In a roundabout way she blamed her income for the distance between Brett and herself. It was almost as though she were ashamed of it. Brett had certainly made her feel that along with her increased income she had also taken to wearing the pants in the family. His words, not hers. At the end it had been such a bone of contention that she had simply turned away from such things and cheerfully deposited the responsibility with Ian.

Ian’s hazel eyes blinked and his face ruddied against the stark white of his shirt collar. What had happened to the woman he had sent up here to finish her novel? He had left a trembling, insecure woman and now he found a different woman entirely. Oh, she had the same face, same name, but she wasn’t the Rita Bellamy he knew, and it rankled and displeased him. Not that he ever wanted to feed on her insecurities and indecisions, but he had to admit it was certainly nice being needed and admired by an intelligent woman. Women weren’t the same any longer, not since that ridiculous Women’s Lib, at any rate. They all pretended to be fiercely independent, self-sufficient. What happened to those simple, endearing women who depended upon a man? Even the talented ones, like Rita, who knew their own limitations and admitted them?

Rita Bellamy was one of those old-fashioned women a man could depend on to boost his ego and see to his comforts. Maternal, loving, quietly deceptive because he knew that within her beat the heart of a very passionate woman. She stirred his blood, flattered his ego, and was so damned pretty. He liked her tremendously and would marry her if she would have him, but Rita always shied away, content to keep things on a professional level. Although there were times when he had thought she was softening to him. Like now, inviting him up to the cottage. He had even packed his silk dressing gown.

Ian had always been Rita’s confidant and protector, taking care of her when the breakup in her marriage occurred. Hadn’t he been the one to find her the lawyer and consult with him so that ingrate husband of hers wouldn’t rake her over the coals? Now she wanted to handle her own affairs. She had no right to go and change on him, Ian’s temper flared, no right at all! Taking a swallow of wine, he soothed himself. Perhaps it was only this change of life he was always reading about. Rita couldn’t possibly actually mean she intended to take up the reins and make her own decisions.

“We’re having broiled chicken and salad for dinner, just the way you like it,” Rita called from the kitchen. “The daisies are lovely, thank you, Ian. I’ll keep them near my desk to cheer me up.”

“You don’t appear to need cheering, darling,” he told her tartly. He had thought he would spend a long evening quietly comforting her and telling her she should come back to the city as soon as her book was finished. He wished someone would comfort him; he had this strange feeling as though the rug was being pulled from under him . . . an inch at a time.

“So tell me how it’s going?” He had to know what was making her look like this. He had never noticed the lilt in her voice before or the sparkle in her eyes. She had always seemed like a wounded puppy. Oh, she smiled and even laughed, but she had been so defenseless that he wanted to crush her to him and tell her it would be all right, that he would make it all right. That he would share his life with her. After all, their children were grown and neither of them had to account to anyone. He wondered vaguely if the ten-year difference in their ages made a difference. When he was seventy-four she would be only sixty-four.

As they sipped at the wine and made small talk, he was more than ever aware of the change in her. She was still gentle, she would always be gentle, and the sensitivity still showed, but she was different.

“When do you think you’ll be coming in to the city?” Ian asked over the rim of his wineglass.

“I’m not sure,” Rita said vaguely. Maybe never, she thought. Maybe when Twigg left. Maybe before. Maybe she would stay through the winter. She didn’t have to make a decision now. She could drift with the days and make up her mind when she was ready. With Charles in college there was no need to rush back, and she deserved a respite between books.

“I thought your intention was to stay only till you finished the book.” He tried to keep the snap and churlishness out of his voice but realized he was unsuccessful. Rita didn’t notice.

“I know, but I like it here. I’m surprised, Ian, that you didn’t notice my new furniture. As you can see, I’m quite comfortable here. I think I write better up here. It’s certainly going well. There’s nothing pressing for me back in town, and we both agreed that I wasn’t going on tour for this book, so really, my time is my own. It won’t cause a problem, will it?” Her voice asked a question, but it clearly stated that she didn’t care if it did make a problem. “What about the children. The grandchildren?” Ian asked sourly.

Again, Rita failed to notice his tone. “What about them? Ian, they aren’t babies. Camilla is a responsible adult and has a husband to look after her. She’s a wonderful mother and she has her own friends. Even when I’m home I talk to her on the phone, but I don’t see her that often. As for the grandchildren, of course, I’ll miss them but they aren’t my responsibility. Their mother can tend them or get a sitter. I’m sure that you must have noticed that for some reason we’ve grown apart lately.”

“Yes, of course. It saddens me. You’ve always said that Camilla is closest to you, the one most like you in so many ways.”

“Perhaps that’s the problem. She was too much like me when we were all a family and growing. Things have changed. I’ve changed and Camilla has changed. She has a stepmother who is a year younger than she is. She doesn’t like my career. Over the past months I’ve sensed that there isn’t a lot Camilla does like about me. I’m sure that in her heart she blames me for the divorce. The word divorcee is not something Camilla has come to terms with. I’m sorry, but there isn’t anything I can do about it. Brett forced me into this position and I intend to grow from it, not backpedal and languish in an empty house. I’m just a late bloomer getting on my feet.”

“Rita, you’re surprising me. I’ve never seen this side of you. Whatever you want is fine with me. I’m just concerned that you don’t make . . . make . . .”

“A fool of myself? Say it, Ian. Don’t talk around it and up and down it. If I do make a fool of myself over something, anything, then I’ll have to take the responsibility for it. It will be my decision, my choice. I may do things wrong, make a mess of certain things, but I’ll learn from my mistakes. I can live with that. Everyone else will have to live with that too.”

“And Rachel and Charles?”

“Rachel is Rachel. She accepts me as I am. She has never made demands on me, and I sincerely believe she’s the only one who doesn’t secretly blame me for the divorce. She’s been after me for over a year to ‘get with it,’ as she puts it. I think she’ll encourage me in my independence. Charles, I’m not sure about. He still needs me, but in a limited way. He wants to know that Mom is there when he wants her. He may never physically need me, but it’s important for him to know that he can at least count on me. He’s going to start growing on his own now that he’s in college. If we’re very lucky, we can grow together. If not, one of us is going to have to take some lumps.”

Ian finished the last of his wine and poured some more from the bottle. “Rita, I hardly know you anymore,” he said softly.

Rita smiled. Now where had she heard those words before? “I think our dinner is ready. You’re a good friend, Ian. I hope you won’t endanger our wonderful relationship by censoring me for anything. Let me try my wings. But don’t catch me if they get clipped. Deal?”

What could he say? “Deal,” he said morosely.

Rita chattered happily all through dinner. She might see Twigg soon. She hoped she could carry off the visit so that Ian wouldn’t suspect anything. Ian was astute and tuned in. The warm feeling stayed with her when she realized she didn’t really care if Ian knew. It was just that everything was so new that she wanted to keep it to herself for a while. Later, much later, she would decide if the children needed to know, and if so, how she would handle it. Probably not well, she thought with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Rita came out of her cocoon long enough to sense there was something bothering Ian. “Is something bothering you, Ian? Something you want to talk about? I didn’t mean to offend you before. I think it’s time that I started doing and thinking for myself. I could have written you a letter, but I thought it would be better if we discussed it between ourselves.” She didn’t want him to know that she had come to this decision suddenly. As suddenly as she had decided to take Twigg for her lover. Her lover. Just the thought brought pink to her cheeks.

Ian brushed at his salt-and-pepper hair. He knew he was an attractive man, well groomed and polished. He had never considered women a problem for him, not even during his marriage to Dorothy. When he was younger he had to literally beat them off, and his wife, rest her soul, had never been the wiser. He wasn’t a complete cad, after all. A few indiscretions, an occasional affair, but always he had been considerate of the woman who mothered his children, protecting her from any knowledge of the lapses due to his randier nature.

No, he had never had to force himself upon a woman, and it annoyed him that Rita seemed impervious to his charms. He didn’t like it. At all. He stared at Rita, knowing she expected an answer of some kind. He wasn’t certain he loved her. Wasn’t even certain he was capable of love at his stage in life. He did know he desired her and was certain that if he could get her into bed he could please her sexually.

His feelings for Rita were more complicated than mere loving. It was something deeper, more essential to him. Need, perhaps. She made him feel needed and he responded in a basic, masculine way. The feeling that he must protect her, shelter her from hurt and disappointment, was sometimes so overwhelming it took his breath away. Together, they could live a quiet, comfortable life, mutually benefiting one another.

Over the past years he had seen flashes of this independence she was right now wearing like a badge of honor. Those times in the past they had been quickly squelched, first by Brett and later by Camilla and Charles. Guiltily, he realized he could have encouraged her to find her own strength. But he liked it when she came to him for advice and he basked in her compliments for his astute business dealings on a particular contract. Most of his other clients lived their lives in the fast lane, and they sometimes resented what they called his interference. Once a contract was signed, they didn’t want to see or hear from him again unless he had a check for them.

Jesus, he didn’t even like the hokey garbage Rita wrote. But garbage or not, she was an established author with a huge following and even more potential than some of the “artists” who turned out a book once every seven years. Rita’s earnings stunned him, and at times he chortled all the way to the bank. “I’m sorry, Rita, my mind was elsewhere. What were you saying?”

Rita smiled. Ian appeared tired. If Twigg didn’t show up soon, Ian would go to bed and that would be the end of that. “It wasn’t important. Don’t feel you must stay up with me just because you’re my guest. You have a long drive in the morning. I might work a little longer and since it’s going good I’m getting ready to wind it down. I don’t want to skip over any loose threads in the plot.”

“It’s the difference in our ages, isn’t it? You’ve just realized that I’m ten years older than you are. I know you’re young and vital, but I think I still have a lot of good years left in me.”

Rita was about to light a cigarette. She stared at Ian, stunned at what he had just said. Her voice was brittle when she spoke. “Difference in our ages in regard to what?”

“Us. You and me.”

“Ian, there is no you and me. You’re my agent and I’m your client. We’re friends. I didn’t know that you . . . what I mean is, you never said . . . am I interpreting all of this right?”

Ian nodded. “I didn’t want to rush you. The divorce and all. The children like me. You like my children. We’re both grandparents. We do have a lot in common. I thought you sensed . . . perhaps, I should have spoken sooner.” His voice was sober and solemn and sent a chill down Rita’s spine.

“Ian, I had no idea. I’m sorry. I’m flattered, even honored, that you think of me in that way.” A week ago, a month ago, she probably would have fallen into his arms and never realized that he had not mentioned the word “love.”

Ian was saved from defending his statement by a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Rita called happily. She wanted to laugh and throw her arms around Twigg’s neck. His unruly, curly hair was still damp and clung in tight corkscrew ringlets about his face. She could smell his woodsy aftershave and it made her light-headed. For the occasion he had put on a clean, wrinkled shirt and jeans that molded his slim hips and long legs. His sneakers defied description.

“Twigg Peterson,” he said, holding out his hand to Ian when he noticed Rita was just staring at him. It could have become an awkward moment.

“Ian Martin,” Ian said in surprise. His eyes went to Rita and clearly said, I thought you said no one was here but you.

“Twigg is doing a series of articles on dolphins and killer whales. He’s staying in the Johnson cottage around the bend in the lake.” She wondered if Ian realized he was glaring at Twigg.

Twigg, on the other hand, had eyes only for Rita. “I’d like a beer, if you don’t mind. Don’t get up, I can get it myself.”

“Get it himself,” Ian mouthed the words to Rita’s smiling face. She nodded as she leaned back in her chair and lit a cigarette. Ian would never understand a man who could do for himself when a woman was around and available to do for him. It never would have occurred to Ian to get his own beer. That’s what wives and housekeepers were for.

Ian sat down heavily and Twigg returned, sitting down across from Rita and beside Ian. Rita watched the two men for a moment. With Ian’s announcement and Twigg’s arrival, she felt as though she were tumbling backward to square one, uncertain of herself and dreading the conversation that was to follow. Looking uncomfortable, even angry, Ian sipped his wine, draining the glass and placing it on the coffee table. His eyes shifted to Rita as though he expected her to hurry and refill it for him, or at least ask if he would care for another glass. Twigg seemed oblivious to Ian’s discomfort as he drank his beer. “I managed eight hundred words today,” he announced proudly.

“That’s wonderful! Looks as though you’re coming to terms with the assignment and it won’t be long before you can put it behind you.” Easily, she entered into conversation with him. With Twigg it was always so easy. Occasionally, he directed his questions to Ian who found himself joining in the light repartee.

Soon, Rita suggested that perhaps Ian might find another market for Twigg’s articles, and it was the agent who expressed interest in seeing something on paper.

“It won’t mean much without the pictures to accompany it,” Twigg told him. “The assignment I’m doing for National Geographic naturally required photos, and they’re damn good if I say so myself.”

Ian seemed immediately interested. This was a man with high qualifications. An assignment from National Geographic was something to boast about, and he’d heard recently that one of the major publishers was looking for subjects to print into what Ian liked to call “coffee table books.”

Relieved that the two men seemed to be getting on so well despite the uncertain beginning, Rita quietly excused herself and went into the kitchen to start the dinner dishes. A little while later Twigg came in for another beer, followed by Ian carrying his empty wineglass. The conversation had now progressed to having Twigg send Ian a portfolio of his photos and text.

As though it were the most natural thing in the world, Twigg took up a dish towel and began drying as Rita washed, still continuing his conversation with Ian. If the older man was a little surprised by this action, he said nothing. When it came to business, Ian was a dynamo, and the last in the world to alienate a prospective and profitable client.

It was past midnight when Ian stood and announced he was going to bed. Rita offered to call him at five thirty so he could beat the rush-hour traffic on Interstate 80.

“Good night, Ian,” Rita said softly, refusing to meet those accusing hazel eyes that asked when, if ever, she was going to abide by propriety and send this young rascal, Peterson, home.

“Good night, dear.” He kissed her perfunctorily on the cheek and warmly shook hands with Twigg. “I’ll be watching for your stuff, Peterson. Don’t wait too long to get it together. I have a saying ‘strike when the iron’s hot.’ ”

“I’ll do that,” Twigg assured him, sitting down on the floor beside Rita’s chair.

“You certainly handled him efficiently,” Rita complimented after Ian had left them alone.

Twigg raised a brow. “Efficiently, is it? That’s succinct and descriptive. I’ll have to use that myself.”

Rita laughed. Twigg knew exactly what she was talking about only he didn’t think it worth discussing. Ian had been prepared to dislike Twigg and instead had offered to help him find a market for his work. Amazing. She liked the way Twigg had handled himself. Self-confident without seeming to be too brash and cocky, at least to the slightly stuffy Ian. She knew Twigg would fit into almost any group of people, being well liked as well as admired. Just look at the way he had charmed her!

Silently, Twigg drank his beer, covertly watching Rita. He wanted to drag her off to his bed, to hold her, touch her, hear her whisper his name as she tumbled over the edge of pleasure. She had lovely legs, he had noticed. Slim, gracefully turned, and teasingly revealed by the slit-hemmed skirt she wore. He had been conscious of the deep, open neck of her blouse all evening and of the shadow of cleavage it revealed. He wanted to bury his face between her breasts, breathe in the scent of her. Tenderly, her hand touched his head, running her fingers through his hair.

“Penny for your thoughts,” she said softly.

Turning, he looked up into her face. “I was just thinking I’d like to throw you over my shoulder and carry you down to my cottage and make mad, passionate love to you.”

For an instant, Rita’s eyes glanced in the direction of Ian’s room. Then, turning back to Twigg, her eyes smiled down at him. “What are you waiting for?”

His smile was dazzling, his gaze smoldering, and she was lost to her own building emotions and desires. He rose to his feet, drawing her up into his arms, dipping his face to bury it in the hollow of her throat.