September Morning

She grimaced. “Virginity isn't such a prize these days,” she sighed, remembering Missy Donavan's faintly insulting remarks about it.

His silent appraisal lasted so long that her attention was caught by the faint ticking of the big grandfather clock in the hall. “Don't get any ideas about throwing yours away,” he warned softly.

“Oh, Blake, don't be so old fashioned,” she grumbled. “Anyway,” she added with a faint, mischievous smile, “where would you be today if all the women in the world were pure?”

“Rather frustrated,” he conceded. “But you're not one of my women, and I don't want you offering yourself to men like a nymphomaniac.”

She sighed. “There's hardly any danger of that,” she said dully. “I don't know how.”

“That dress is a damned good start,” he observed.

She glanced down at it. “But it covers me up,” she protested. “It's a lot more modest than what Nan was wearing.”

“I noticed,” he said with a musing smile.

She peeked at him through her lashes. “Nan thinks you're the sexiest man alive,” she said lightly. “She knew you'd be at the party.”

His face hardened. “Nan's a child,” he growled, turning away with one hand rammed in his pocket. “And I'm too old to encourage hero worship.”

Nan was Kathryn's age, exactly. Her heart seemed to plummet, and she wanted to hit out at him. He always made her feel so gauche and ignorant.

She studied his broad back. He was so good to look at. So big and vibrant, and full of life. A quiet man, a caring man. And a tyrant!

“If you won't let me invite Larry here,” she murmured, “I suppose I could fly down to the coast and go to that writers’ convention with him.”

He turned, staring at her, hard and intimidating even at a distance. “Threatening me, Kate?” he asked.

“I wouldn't dare!” she replied fervently.

His dark face was as unreadable as a stone sculpture. “We'll talk about it again.”

She scowled at him. “Tyrant,” she grumbled.

“Is that your best shot?” he asked politely.

“Male chauvinist!” she said, trying again. “You do irritate me, Blake!”

He moved toward her lazily. “What do you think you do to me, little Kathryn?” he asked, his voice a low growl.

She looked up into his arrogant face as he came within striking distance. “I probably irritate you just as much,” she admitted, sighing. “Pax?”

He smiled down at her indulgently. “Pax. Come here.”

He tilted her chin up and bent his head down. She closed her eyes, expecting the familiar brief, rough touch of his mouth. But it didn't come.

Puzzled, she opened her eyes and looked straight into his at an unnerving distance. She was so close that she could see the flecks of gold in his dark brown irises, the tiny crinkled lines at the corner of his eyelids.

His fingers touched the side of her throat, warm and strangely caressing.

“Blake?” she whispered uncertainly.

His jaw tautened. She could see a muscle jerk beside his sensuous mouth.

“Welcome home, Kate,” he said roughly, and started to move away.

“Aren't you going to kiss me?” she asked without thinking.

All the expression drained out of his face to leave his eyes smoldering as they looked down into hers. “It's late,” he said abruptly, turning away, “and I'm tired. Good night, Kate.”

He walked out the door and left her standing there, staring at the empty doorway.

Chapter Three

Blake was strangely reserved for the next few days, and Kathryn found herself watching him for no reason at all. He was just Blake, she kept telling herself. Just her guardian, as familiar as the towering old house and its ring of live oaks. But something was different. Something…and she couldn't quite grasp what.

“Blake, are you angry with me?” she asked him one evening as he started upstairs to dress for a date.

He scowled down at her. “What makes you think that, Kathryn?” he asked.

She shrugged, and forced a smile for him. “You seem…remote.”

“I've got a lot on my mind, kitten,” he said quietly.

“The strike?” she guessed.

“That, and a few other assorted headaches,” he agreed. “If you're through asking inane questions, I am on my way out.”

“Sorry,” she said flippantly. “Heaven forbid that I should keep you from the wheat fields.”

“Wheat fields?”

“Where you sow your wild oats, of course,” she said with what felt like devastating sophistication as she turned to go back in the living room where Phillip and Maude were talking.

He chuckled softly. “Your slip's showing.”

She whirled, grasping her midi-length velveteen skirt and staring down at her shapely calf. “Where?”

He went on up the stairs with a low chuckle and she glared after him.

***

Later, she watched him come back downstairs, dressed in a pair of dark slacks with a white silk shirt open at the neck and a tweed jacket that gave him a rakish look. What woman was he taking out, she wondered, and would she know how to appreciate all that dark, vibrant masculinity? Just the sight of him was enough to make Kathryn's pulse race, and involuntarily she thought back to the night of her homecoming party and the strange look in Blake's eyes when he started to kiss her and didn't. That hesitation had puzzled her ever since, although she tried not to think about it too much. Blake would be frighteningly dangerous in any respect other than that of a cherished adopted brother.

***

Nan Barrington came over early the next morning to go riding with Kathryn. Petite and fragile-looking in her jodhpurs, she was wearing a blue sweater, very tight, that was the exact shade of her eyes.

She brushed by Kathryn with a tiny sigh, her eyes immediately on everything in sight as she searched the area for Blake.