Besides, every time he saw her, he wanted to grab her. Considering what she'd been through, he didn't think she was at the grabbing stage yet.
He finished off a slice of pizza, contemplated another. Then glanced over at the sound of a car. His brows lifted when he realized the car wasn't passing by but heading in.
He didn't recognize it, but he recognized the woman who stepped out of it. And this, he thought, was a better way to end the day than pizza and beer.
"Hey, Phoebe."
"Duncan." She pushed at her hair as she walked to the veranda. "I was at the bridge before it occurred to me you probably weren't here, and then it was too late not to keep going. But here you are anyway."
"I'm here a lot. I mostly live here."
"So you've said."
"Want some pizza? A beer?"
"No, and no. Thank you."
The formal tone had him lifting his eyebrows again. "How about a chair?"
"I'm fine, thanks. I want to ask what you're doing with my mother." Okay. "Well, I asked her to marry me, but she avoided giving me an answer. I don't think she took me seriously so I settled for the cookies."
"I'm wondering how seriously you take her, or yourself."
"Why don't you tell me why you're pissed at me, and we'll go from there?"
"I'm not pissed. I'm concerned."
Bullshit, he thought. He knew a pissed-off woman when she was standing on his veranda ready to chew holes in him. "About?"
"My mother's bursting with excitement over this business you talked to her about."
"You don't want her to be excited?"
"I don't want her to be disappointed, or disillusioned or hurt."
His voice was as cool as his neglected beer. "Which would be the natural consequence of excitement over the project we discussed. Which, as I recall," he added, "doesn't involve you."
"My mother's state of mind very much involves me. You can't come in there talking about some store you're thinking of opening in some house you're thinking of buying, and how she's going to be a part of it. It's your business how you do business-"
"Thank you very much."
"But," Phoebe ground out. "You got her all worked up, making plans, making designs, talking about how she'll be able to help more with the expenses. What happens to all that if you change your mind, or it doesn't come through, or you just find something more interesting to play with?"
"Why would I change my mind?"
"Aren't you the one who opened a sports bar, then sold it?"
"Sold a piece of it," he corrected.
"Then a pub. And I don't know what else." Which was the crux of it. She didn't know, and he was taking her mother into territory she hadn't mapped out. "You bounce, and that's fine for you, Duncan, that's just fine. It's not fine for my mother. She doesn't bounce."
"Let me sort this out. In your opinion, I'm irresponsible and unreliable."
"No. No." She let out a sigh as the leading edge of her temper dulled down to the core of worry. "You're casual, Duncan, and it's part of your appeal. You can afford to be casual, and not just because of the money. No one depends on you, so you can do what you like, come and go as you please."
"Is that casual or careless?"
"I say what I mean, and I said casual. I don't think you're careless. But my mother's fragile, and-"
"Your mother's amazing. You know, I told her once she ought to give herself a break, but the fact is, you ought to give her one. Do you think because she can't go out of that house, she's less than amazing?"
"No. Damn it, no." Because the conversation, such as it was, had gotten out of her hands, Phoebe dragged them through her hair and tried to get back to center. "But she does. She's been hurt and pushed and shoved into the corner so many times."
"I'm not going to do any of those things to Essie."
"Not on purpose. I don't mean that. But what if, for whatever reason, you don't buy that house, then-"
"I bought it today."
That stopped her. That put a hitch in her stride, Duncan thought.
He said nothing more, just picked up his beer, watched her as he tipped back the bottle.
"All right, you bought the house. But what if you find it isn't cost effective to fix it up? Or what if-"
"Jesus. What if the voices tell me to put on fairy wings and fly to
Cuba? You can 'what if till next Tuesday; it doesn't mean a damn. I finish what I start, goddamn it. I'm not stupid."
"You're not stupid. I never said or meant you were." But someone had, someone that mattered. "It's just that this all came out of the blue, and for my mother it's huge. I'm trying to point out the variables, and I'm trying to understand why you'd involve her in this. I can't understand what you're doing. I can't understand what you want. From her.
From me."
"Tied those two together," he muttered, and pushed to his feet. "Must want something from you, so I use her. Let's answer this first. You want to know what I want from you?"
"Yes. Let's start there."
He grabbed her before the last word was all the way out. The hell with biding time. He was too pissed off to bide anything. He had his mouth on hers, showing her what he wanted, taking what he wanted with an impatient anger he rarely let free.
Hunger pushed and shoved at temper until his mouth ravaged hers.
Her back pressed back against the porch column, and her hands were trapped between his body and hers. Every muscle in her body quivered. But not in protest, not in fear. There was a difference between fear and thrill, and she understood it now.
When he broke off, there was such heat in his eyes.
"You got that now?" he demanded. "We're clear on that point?"
"Yes."
"Then-"
It was her move now. All hers. Her hands were free so she hooked one arm around his neck, yanked his mouth back to hers. She would have chained her arms around him if her injured shoulder had allowed. When he pressed her against the column again, she nipped at his lip, rocked her hips against his.
She let the pleasure flood her after months and months of sexual drought. The feel of his hands on her breasts, the feel of the night air on her skin when his busy fingers undid her shirt, unhooked her bra. The glorious sensation that rolled through her and escaped on a purring moan.
She went wet and needy, arching to his hands and his mouth, quivering, quivering when he tugged at the button of her waistband.
Here, standing right here, she wanted to be taken without thought, without care, without boundaries. Desperate, she reached for him. And the shock of pain in her shoulder had her crying out.
He jerked back as if she'd punched him. "Christ. Christ."
"It's all right. I moved wrong, that's all. Don't-"
But he held up a hand, turned away. He paced up, he paced down. Stopped and took a long, long gulp of his warming beer.
"You're hurt. You're still hurt. Jesus." And, setting the beer down again, he scrubbed his hands over his face.
"It's not that bad. Really."
"You're still hurt. And I'm not going to bang you against the post like… Okay, okay, another minute here."
He paced up and down again. "You pissed me off. No real excuse but I'm taking it."
"No excuses necessary as it was obviously mutual."
"Regardless. Anyway, that should answer the question, which I'm still trying to exactly remember as all the blood's drained out of my head. The second had to do with…" He'd turned to face her again, and just stared.
She stood, leaning back against the post, shirt open, hair tumbled, cheeks flushed.
"Wow. Seriously. Hold on," he said when she glanced down, then began to button up. "Would you not do that for just another minute. Maybe two? Since I'm not allowed to touch, it seems only fair I be able to look. You've got this really terrific body. It's all just… just exactly right. And the way you're standing there, and this light, and…