Twenty-five

PORTIA WALKED INTO the Kanes’ house at five that evening. As she was walking in, a small crew of what she knew were Miranda’s friends came out. The boy Dustin wagged an eyebrow at her. She glowered back in what she hoped was a stern schoolteacher sort of way. The boy only laughed.

Portia had been spending her days doing exactly three things: cooking, baking, and telling herself to stop thinking about Gabriel Kane. Actually, that made it four things, the fourth being the time she spent thinking about Gabriel. Which was a lot.

Then there had been the nights. But she really tried not to think too much about those. She still found it hard to believe that she was having utterly passionate, completely uncommitted sex with her upstairs neighbor. Her, Portia Cuthcart. Always safe. Always careful. Always proper. She still hadn’t even been out on a date with him. The Bandana Ball didn’t count. Olivia had all but forced him to go.

Sure, something in her old Texas soul whispered unhelpful things about cows and milk for free. But everything in this newer New York soul had her reveling in being someone so unlike the woman she had become in Texas—soft, a ghost of her former self.

Her thoughts were interrupted just as she was finishing up dinner for the Kanes when Ariel walked into the kitchen looking a bit gray. She sat down without saying more than a listless hi.

Miranda followed a few second later. “What is Ariel telling you?” she demanded, more belligerent than usual.

Portia considered. “What’s going on with you two now?”

“Nothing,” they said in tandem.

Miranda shot her sister a sharp scowl, then wheeled around and left. A moment later Ariel got up and walked out, too. Portia heard first one bedroom door slam, then another.

Don’t get involved, she told herself. A smart woman doesn’t get involved with her secret lover’s children.

Which just got her mind circling back to the same thing she wasn’t supposed to be thinking about. Gabriel.

Last night he had come down the fire escape in that way he did. When she had opened the door, she found him standing there, his hair still damp from a shower, raked back with his hands. He wore a T-shirt instead of a button-down, old jeans that hung low on his hips, and a pair of Converse with no socks. He stepped inside without asking, as if he couldn’t do anything else, a strong man giving in to her in a way that made her feel heady with a foreign sort of power. This strong man wanted her. This powerful man couldn’t stay away from her. A thrill ran through her at the thought.

Standing at the door, he showed no trace of the civilized businessman who stepped out of his town car every evening. He walked into the room as if he owned it and pulled his T-shirt over his head, throwing it to the side.

The twist in Portia’s stomach at the sight of him was so raw and primal that she couldn’t shape words.

“Portia,” he said finally, the word dragged out on a breath, then just stood there.

“Gabriel, are you okay?”

He pressed his eyes closed, blowing a hard breath out his nose. “No.”

Then he dragged her into his arms and took her over to the old wrought-iron bed. They made love with a kind of ferocity that made the bed slam against the wall. But even that wasn’t enough, and five minutes after, they started over, sweaty bodies turning over each other, the only sounds ragged gasps and moans. At some point, he flipped her on her back and pinned her down, his face wild as they gave in to sensation without words, he never taking his eyes off her.

Finally, later, when they were lying next to each other, gasping, it was Gabriel who broke the silence, the edge in him eased, if only slightly. Lying in the semidarkness, he came up on one elbow, demanding to know everything about her, pinning her down when she was elusive.

So she told him about her parents, her grandmother, the stories all whitewashed and pretty. Evie and the town house, the way it had looked in its prime, the way she had loved it. The way she and her sisters used to play dress-up with their aunts’ old costumes.

He listened intently, his fingers running along her arm and shoulders, circling slowly across her collarbone, as if drawing her words along her skin.

But at some point he captured her hands with his and rolled over on top of her, breaking off her sentence. “Portia,” he groaned against her mouth, his free hand sliding down her body, no longer lazy, rather intent.

She lost herself to his touch. But at the back of her mind she worried. What they shared was sweaty and complicated. Despite all her talk of uncommitted sex, he refused to let her keep her boundaries. With the exception of that one earlier kiss, he maintained control of her, her body, of his. But she also knew that he let down his guard with her. Gabriel was a man who was used to control. What would he do if he lost what he no doubt felt defined him?

The bang of the kitchen cabinet yanked her out of her thoughts.

“Dinner still isn’t ready?” Miranda demanded. “Hello, I’m starving.”

Portia blushed as if the teenager could possibly know what she had been thinking. Miranda made a strangled scoffing sound. “Dinner. In this century.”

By the time Ariel and Miranda were seated at the table and Portia was neatening up from preparing the meal of juicy pork chops, green beans with almonds, and creamy cheese-filled grits before she left, she heard the front door open, and her knees went weak.

She glanced up and saw Gabriel coming down the hallway. He stopped in the doorway and just looked at her.

“Jeez, what’s up with you, Dad?” Miranda sneered.

Portia jerked her head down and focused on the stove. Instead of snapping at his daughter’s tone, Gabriel walked over and kissed the top of Miranda’s head. “Sorry, honey. It’s been a good day.”

For a second, Portia was certain Miranda was about to cry. But then she jerked up from her chair.

“A good day?” she bit out. “Have you looked outside? It’s, like, totally cloudy.”

She slammed her chair back and stomped off, leaving her nearly full dinner plate behind.

“Miranda!” Gabriel snapped, all that ease disappearing from his eyes as he started after her.

Ariel dropped her head and concentrated on the food Portia had set in front of her.

Later, after the girls had gone to bed and Portia was sound asleep, he came down the fire escape.

“This is New York,” Gabriel said, his tone sharp, waking her. “You need to keep your windows locked.”

“I do,” Portia murmured. “You came in through the glass door. Using a key you shouldn’t have. There has to be a law against that.”

She was dimly aware that he carried the cardboard sign she had posted earlier. “I take it that among your plethora of skills, reading isn’t one of them?”

“I read.” He tossed the sign aside, then slid between the sheets, pulling her close.

She rolled over onto her stomach, burrowing deeper into the sheets and blankets, hugging the pillow. Gabriel lifted up her hair and ran his lips along the nape of her neck. Then other kisses, his hands leaving her hair. “You think I’m sexy,” he said.

She groaned. “Of course that’s what you took away from the sign.”

“‘All Sexy Cat Burglars Keep Out.’”

“I should have just written ‘Keep Out.’ Simple. To the point.” It had just seemed too mean. But she wanted him to stay away. The more he came down the fire escape, the harder it was to remain in the frame of mind of being okay with an arrangement where they were nothing more than two single adults having casual sex. She was turning into a pathetic, old-fashioned cliché. The more she had sex with him, the less casual it felt. Given the man she realized he was, there was no way this could end well. She had come to understand that he wanted something from her that he hated needing. Hated that he gave in to repeatedly.

“That isn’t fair,” she gasped when he pulled the sheet low.

“What isn’t fair?” he asked, running his tongue along the shell of her ear.

“I’m exhausted. I’ve been cooking all day.”

“I’m the one who’s exhausted,” he countered, sitting up briefly to rip off his shirt and kick his shorts away. Falling back to her, he rolled her over, her arms above her head, loosely pinning her wrists with one of his large hands. His eyes flared as he took her in, her breasts high through the old T-shirt she wore. “I haven’t slept since I met you.”

“At all? Not one second of sleep.”

He grinned down at her. “Barely.” His free hand slipped beneath the soft cotton of her tee, his thigh sliding over her hips. Portia moaned into his mouth, tasting him.

“You’re like a demented cat burglar,” she murmured, gasping as his thumb brushed the peak of her breast.

“A sexy cat burglar,” he reminded her, running his tongue along the same path his thumb had just grazed.

“You’re also my boss,” she managed. “My upstairs neighbor. A man, need I remind you, who is trying to kick me out of my apartment.”

He had the good grace to tense at that.

“Basically,” she continued, trying her hardest to stay focused as he resumed his attention to her body, “this all adds up to a really bad idea. Beyond that—if you need a beyond that—one of these days someone is going to figure out what is going on here. My money is on Ariel. And as much as she likes me, I’m not sure she’s going to like you and me. I know Miranda won’t.”

“Let me worry about my daughters. Besides, at one point, Ariel was trying to get me to ask you out.”