Kate had a long-standing concept of what Sunday mornings were for. They were for sleep. Throughout college she had used them for extra study time, or to finish up papers and projects. But once she entered the real world, she designated that time for indulgence.
Byron had a different agenda.
"You've got to resist both ways," he told her. "Mentally isolate the muscle you're working on. Right here." He pressed his fingers to her triceps as she lifted and lowered the five-pound weight, over her head, behind her back. "Don't flop your arm," he ordered. "You're pulling it up and pushing it down through mud."
"Mud. Right." She tried to envision a pool of thick, oozing mud instead of a nice soft bed with cool sheets. "And why am I doing this?"
"Because it's good for you."
"Good for me," she muttered, and watched herself in the mirror. She had thought she would feel ridiculous in the little sports bra and snug bike pants. But it wasn't really so bad. Besides, she got to look at him, too. A well-built man in a tank top and sweat shorts wasn't hard on the eyes at all.
"Now stretch. Don't forget the stretch. Go to the set of concentration curls. Remember?"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah."
She sat on the bench, frowned at the weight she lifted and lowered and tried to imagine her biceps growing. Good-bye, one-hundred-and-two-pound weakling, she thought. Hello, buff.
"And when we're finished here, you're going to make French toast, right?"
"That was the deal."
"I've got me a personal trainer and a chef." She flashed him a smile. "Pretty cool."
"You're a lucky woman, Katherine. Other arm now. Concentrate."
He moved her through flys and dead lifts, hammer lifts and extensions. Though he'd completed his Sunday routine before hauling her out of bed, they'd both worked up a nice sweat by the time he proclaimed her finished.
"So, I'm going to be buff, huh?"
He grinned, rubbing her shoulders, massaging his way down her arms. "Sure you are, kid. We'll put you in one of those little bikinis, oil you up, and shoot you into competition."
"In your dreams."
"Not my dreams," he said sincerely. "Believe me. I've discovered this latent desire for skinny women. In fact, it's starting to stir right now."
"Is that so?" She didn't object when his hands moved around her back and down to cup her bottom.
"I'm afraid it is. Hmm." His fingers roamed, clutched. "This reminds me. Tomorrow we work on the lower body."
"I hate those squats."
"That's because you don't have my vantage point." His gaze shifted to the mirror behind her, and he watched his hands take possession, watched her move against him, saw her shiver when he lowered his mouth to that wonderful curve of neck and shoulder.
It was almost ridiculous the way he wanted her, the way the need would rise up time after time, again and again. Like breathing, he thought, nibbling his way up to her ear. Like life.
"I think we should finish off your morning routine with a little aerobics."
She managed a sound between a groan and a sigh. "Not the NordicTrack, Byron. I'm begging you."
"I had something else in mind." His busy mouth skimmed over her cheek. "I think you'll like it."
"Oh." She got the idea when his hand moved up to palm her breast. "You did say that for overall training aerobics is essential."
"Just put yourself in my hands."
"I was hoping you'd say that."
She gave so easily, he thought. So eagerly. The way her mouth moved on his, the mating of tongues, the press of bodies. All of his old fantasies about the woman of his dreams had faded and shifted and reemerged as her. Only her.
An image of her flickered into his mind. The way she'd looked the night before in that slim, shoulder-baring dress. All that smooth skin, those surprising curves. That wide, wet mouth.
And beneath the dress had been a wanton fantasy of black lace. The sight of her had been staggering, and so unexpected, so impractical for his practical Kate. It was a side of her he had loved exploring. Knowing she had been exploring it as well had been brutally erotic.
She was just as appealing to him now, in damp workout gear that he could hastily peel off.
Both of them were naked to the waist when they tumbled to the mat.
She laughed, rolling with him as they tugged at those last barriers. It was wonderful, wasn't it, to feel so... unbound. So completely liberated. She'd stopped questioning how it was he knew just where, just how to touch her. As if he'd always known. And his body was so strong, so hard. It was like making love with a dream. Rolling on top of him, she poured the sheer joy of it into a kiss.
Yes, touch me, she thought. And taste. Here. And here. Let me. Again. Always again, she thought as her heart pounded and her blood swam. Over and over, moment to moment, he could fill her with so many clashing sensations. The wave of heat, the chill of anticipation, a shiver of greed, the warmth of giving.
She wanted to hold him forever, to steep herself in him. Lose herself. And so she took him inside here, trembling to a gasp at that bright instant of joining. She arched back, savoring, tormenting herself with the power, groaning at the texture of his hands that slicked up her to torture her aching breasts.
She held them there, her tensed fingers gripping as she began to move.
It staggered him, the look of her. The dark cap of hair framed her glowing face. Breath heaved and hitched through her parted lips. That long swan's neck was bowed back, the doe's eyes closed. Sunlight poured in over her, so bright, so full, they might have been outdoors in some verdant meadow. He could see her there, a hot-blooded Titania, lusty and sleek.
He wanted her to feed herself, feed herself to satiation. But she increased her rhythm, driving him with her. Her moans and cries swarmed into his blood until they were thrust for desperate thrust.
He exploded beneath her, into her. With one long, glorying sigh, she slid down and crushed her mouth to his.
She sang in the shower. This was unusual even when she was alone. Kate was well aware that she did not have a voice like a bell. As they lathered and soaped he joined in for a miserably off-key, if heartfelt, version of "Proud Mary."
"Ike and Tina had nothing on us," she decided as she toweled her hair.
"Not a thing. Except maybe talent." Byron wrapped a towel around his hips, rubbed his face, and prepared to shave. "You're the first woman I've showered with who sings as badly as I do."
She straightened, watched him lather up. "Oh, really? Just how many women might that be?"
"The mind boggles." He grinned at her, enjoying the laser gleam in her eyes. "And a true gentleman never keeps score."
She watched him swipe the razor through lather, leaving a smooth, clean path. It occurred to her she'd never actually watched a man shave before. Unless she included Josh, and a brother didn't count. But she refused to be distracted by the interesting male ritual. Instead she smiled sweetly and looked over his shoulder into the foggy mirror.
"Why don't you let me do that for you, darling?"
He lifted an eyebrow. "Do I look stupid enough to put a sharp instrument in your hands?" He rinsed the blade. "I don't think so."
"Coward."
"You betcha."
She snorted, nipped his shoulder with her teeth, then headed toward the bedroom to dress.
"Kate." He waited until she'd turned, aimed that smug look in his direction. "There's only one woman now." He watched her quick, almost shy smile spread before she slipped out the door.
Thoughtfully, Byron stroked off lather and stubble. The room was full of mist and heat, and their mixed scents. She'd hung her towel neatly and efficiently to dry. The little jar she used to moisturize her face sat on the counter. She'd forgotten to use it. She hadn't forgotten to put her workout clothes in the hamper or to replace the cap on the toothpaste. No, she would never overlook any practical detail.
It was the extras she forgot, particularly when they applied to herself. She wouldn't let herself browse through a shop, dreaming, and buy something foolish for herself. She wouldn't forget to turn off the lights or to give a faucet an extra twist to prevent a drip.
Her bills would always be paid on time, but stopping to eat lunch would slip her mind when it was crowded with other details.
She didn't have a clue that she needed him. Byron smiled as he lowered his head to rinse off the excess lather. Nor did she know what he'd just discovered. He no longer thought he might be falling in love with her. He knew that she, with all her contrasts and complexities, her strengths and weaknesses, was the only woman he would ever love.
He dried his face, slapped on aftershave, and decided this might be the perfect time to tell her. He stepped into the bedroom. She was standing beside the bed in black leggings and an old Yankees sweatshirt.
"See this?" she demanded, shaking a mangled rawhide bone at him.
"Yes, I do."
"It was in my shoe. How my shoe escaped the same treatment, I'm not sure." She tossed the bone to Byron, then scooped her hands through her hair to check for dryness. "It was Nip, that I am sure of. Tuck has much better manners. Last week it was that fish head he found on the beach. He has to be disciplined, Byron. He's very unruly."
"Now, Kate, is that any way to talk about our child?"
She sighed, put her hands on her hips, and waited.
"I'll talk to him. But I'm sure if you considered the psychology of it, you'd agree that he puts things in your shoe as a token of his great affection."
"And that includes the time he peed in it."
"Well, I'm sure that was just a mistake." He rubbed a hand over his mouth, too wise to let the grin show. "And it was outside. You took them off to walk on the beach, and... you're not buying it."
"I don't think you'd find it so amusing if he was using your shoes for his depository." As if on cue, there came the sound of frantic barking, of growing canine bodies thudding. "I'll deal with them," Kate stated. "You're too soft."
"Yeah, and who bought them collars with their names on them?" he muttered.
"What?"
"Nothing." Retreating, Byron opened his drawer for underwear. "I'll be down in a minute."
"To make French toast," she reminded him and rushed down to quiet the dogs. "Okay, guys, kill the racket. Keep it up and there's not going to be any walk on the beach. And nobody's going to play sock with either of you."
They rushed up and bumped against her, two alarmingly growing masses of fur and feet. Even as she started to ruffle them, they raced toward the front door and set up a fresh din.
"You know you go out the back way," she began, then the idiotic door chimes sounded. It seemed Byron had decided they were whimsical and had kept them. "Oh." Ridiculously pleased, she beamed at the dogs. "Pretty cool, guys. You were sounding the alarm. Listen, if it's anybody selling anything I want you to do this. Look, look - bare your teeth."
She demonstrated, but they only thumped each other with their wagging tails and offered canine grins.
"We'll work on it," she decided and opened the door.
Her bright mood plummeted. "Mr. Bittle." Automatically she grabbed collars to prevent the dogs from leaping joyfully on the new humans. "Detective."
"I'm sorry to disturb you on Sunday, Kate." Bittle eyed the dogs warily. "Detective Kusack indicated that he intended to speak with you today, and I asked to come along."
"Your lawyer said I would find you here," Kusack put in. "You're free to call him, of course, if you want him here."
"I thought - I was told I was no longer a suspect."
"I'm here to apologize." Bittle kept his solemn eyes on hers. "May we come in?"
"Yes, of course. Nip, Tuck, no jumping."
"Nice dogs." Kusack held out a beefy hand, and it was duly sniffed and licked. "Got me an old Heinz 57 hound. She's getting up in years now."
"Please, sit down. I'll just put them out." That task gave her time to compose herself. When the dogs were racing maniacally over the yard, she turned back. "Would you like some coffee?''
"There's no need for you to trouble," Bittle began, but Kusack leaned back in the ancient recliner and said, "If you're making it anyway."
"I'll make it," Byron volunteered as he came down the stairs.
"Oh, Byron." Relief rippled through her. "You know Detective Kusack."
"Detective."
"Mr. De Witt."
"And this is Lawrence Bittle."
"Of Bittle and Associates," Byron said coolly. "How do you do?"
"I'll say I've done better." Bittle accepted the formal handshake. "Tommy's mentioned you. We had an early round of golf this morning."
"I'll put the coffee on." He sent a look to Kusack that said as clearly as words that anything of import would wait until he came back.
"Nice place here," Kusack said casually. Kate stood where she was, twisting her fingers together.
"It's coming along. Byron takes his time. He just settled on it a couple of months ago. He's, ah, having some things sent out from Atlanta. That's where he's from. Atlanta." Stop babbling, Kate, she ordered herself. Couldn't. "And he's looking for things out here. Furniture and things."
"Hell of a spot." Kusack settled into the recliner, thinking it was a chair that knew how to welcome a man. "House just down the road has a putting green right on the front lawn." He shook his head. "Guy can walk right out his front door and sink a few. Used to drive the kids down here. They got a kick out of the seals."
"Yes, they're wonderful." Gnawing her lip, she glanced toward the kitchen. "Sometimes you can hear them barking. Detective Kusack, are you here to question me?"
"I've got some questions." He sniffed the air. "Nothing like the smell of coffee brewing, is there? Even the poison down at the station house smells like heaven before you taste it. Why don't you sit down, Ms. Powell? I'll tell you again you can lawyer yourself up, but you're not going to need Mr. Templeton for what we have to talk about."
"All right." But she'd reserve judgment on calling Josh. She was not going to be lulled by small talk and paternal smiles. "What do you want?"
"Mr. De Witt snowed you the report from his handwriting expert?"
"Yes. Last night." She sat on the arm of the couch. It was the best she could do. "It said the signatures were copies. Someone duplicated my signature on the altered forms. Used my signature, my clients, my reputation." She rose again when Byron came in with a tray. "I'm sorry," she said quickly. "For the trouble, here."
"Don't be ridiculous." He slid easily into the well-mannered host. "How do you take your coffee, Mr. Bittle?"
"Just cream, thank you."
"Detective."
"The way it comes out of the pot." He sampled the brew Byron offered him. "Now we're talking coffee. I was about to go over the progress of the investigation with Ms. Powell. I'm explaining that our conclusions jibe with those of your independent expert. At this point, indications are that she was set up to take the heat if the discrepancies were discovered. We're looking into other areas."
"You mean other people," Kate said, struggling not to clatter her cup in her saucer.
"I'm saying my investigation is moving along. I'd like to ask you if you have any idea who would focus on you as a scapegoat. There are a lot of accounts in the firm. Only those under your hand were touched."
"If someone did this to damage me, I don't have a clue."
"Maybe you were just convenient. The charges against your father made you prime, maybe gave someone an idea."
"No one knew. I only found out myself shortly before the suspension."
"Interesting. And how did you find out?"
Absently, she rubbed a finger over her temple as she explained.
"You have words with anybody? A tiff? A personality clash, maybe?"
"I didn't have a fight with anyone. Not everyone at the firm is a close friend and confidant, but we work well together."
"No grudge matches, petty grievances?"
"Nothing out of the ordinary." She set her coffee aside, nearly untasted. "Nancy in Billing and I squared off over a misplaced invoice during the April crunch. Tempers are high then. I think I snapped at Bill Feinstein for taking half my computer paper instead of going into stock himself." She smiled a little. "He stuck three cases of it in my office to get back at me for that. Ms. Newman doesn't like me, but she doesn't like anyone but Mr. Bittle Senior."
Bittle stared into his coffee. "Ms. Newman is efficient and a bit territorial." He winced as Kusack busily made notes. "She's worked for me for twenty years."
"I didn't mean she would do something like this." Horrified, Kate sprang up. "I didn't mean that at all! I wouldn't accuse anyone. You might as well say Amanda Devin did it She guards her lone female partner status like a hawk watching for vultures. Or - or Mike Lloyd in the mail room because he can't afford to go to college full time. Or Stu Cominsky because I wouldn't go out with him. Roger Thornhill because I did."
"Lloyd and Cominsky and Thornhill," Kusack muttered as he wrote, and Kate stopped her pacing.
"You write whatever you want to write in that little book of yours, but I'm not going to go around casting blame." She lifted her chin, set it. "I know how it feels."
"Ms. Powell." Watching her, Kusack tapped his stubby pencil against his knee. "This is a police investigation. You're involved. Every member of your former firm is going to be considered. It's a long process. With your cooperation it can be shortened."
"I don't know anything," she said stubbornly. "I don't know anyone who needed money that badly, or who would choose to implicate me in a crime. I do know I've already paid all I intend to pay for something I didn't do. If you want to ruin someone else's life, detective, you'll have to do it without me."
"I appreciate your position, Ms. Powell. You're insulted, and I can't blame you. You do your job, do what's expected of you, and go the extra mile. You see what you've been aiming for swing just into reach, then you get kicked in the teeth."
"That's a nice and very accurate summary. If I knew who did the kicking, I'd be the first to tell you. But I'm not going to put someone whose only crime was to irritate me into the position I've been in."
"Think about it," he suggested. "You've got a good brain. Once you set your mind to figuring it out, I have a hunch you'll come up with something."
The detective rose, and Bittle followed his lead saying, "Before we go, Kate, I'd like another moment of your time. In private, if there's no objection."
"All right. I - " She glanced at Byron.
"Perhaps you'd like to see the view, detective." Byron gestured, then led the way to the deck doors. "Did I hear you say you had a dog?"
"Old Sadie. Ugly as homemade sin, but sweet as they come." His voice faded away as Byron closed the doors.
"An apology isn't enough," Bittle began without preamble. "Is far from enough."
"I'm trying to be fair and understand the position you were in, Mr. Bittle. It's difficult. You watched me grow up. You know my family. You should have known me."
"You're quite right." He looked very old. Very old and very tired. "I've damaged my friendship with your uncle, a friendship that is very important to me."
"Uncle Tommy doesn't hold grudges."
"No, but I hurt one of his children, and that isn't easy for either of us to forget. I can tell you, for what it's worth, that none of us initially believed you would do anything criminal. We needed an explanation, and your reaction to the questions was, well, damning. Understandable now, under the circumstances, but then..."
"You didn't know about my father then, did you?"
"No. We learned about it later. There was a copy of a newspaper article in your office."
"Oh." As simple as that, she thought, and as stupid. She must have missed one when she'd stuffed them into her briefcase. "I see. That made it all look worse."
"It clouded the issue. I should tell you that when Detective Kusack contacted me, I was immensely relieved, and not terribly surprised. I could never reconcile the woman I knew with one who would cheat."
"But you reconciled it enough to suspend me," she said, and heard the brittleness of her own voice.
"Yes. However much I regretted it, and however much I regret it now, I had no choice. I have called each of the partners and relayed this new information. We're meeting in an hour to discuss it. And to discuss the fact that we have an embezzler in our employ."
He paused a moment, gathering his thoughts. "You're very young. It would be difficult for you to understand the dreams of a lifetime, and the way they change. At my age, you have to be very careful, very selective about dreams. You begin to become aware that each one may be your last. The firm has been mine for most of my life. I've nurtured it, sweated over it, brought my children into it" He smiled a little. "An accounting firm doesn't seem like something anyone would dream over."
"I understand." She wanted to touch his arm, but couldn't. "I thought you might. Its reputation is my reputation. Having it damaged in this way makes me realize how fragile even such a prosaic dream can be."
She couldn't help but bend. "It's a good firm, Mr. Bittle. You made something solid there. The people who work for you work for you because you treat them well, because you make them part of the whole. That isn't really prosaic."
"I'd like you to consider coming back. I realize that you may feel uncomfortable doing so until after this matter is fully resolved. However, Bittle and Associates would be very fortunate to have you back on board. As a full partner."
When she didn't speak, he took a step toward her. "Kate, I don't know whether this will make matters worse or better between us, but I want you to know that this offer had already been discussed and voted on prior to this... this nightmare. You were unanimously approved."
She had to ease herself back down on the arm of the chair. "You were going to make me a partner."
"Marty nominated you. I hope you're aware that you always had his complete trust and support. Amanda seconded your nomination. Ah, I believe that was why she was so harsh when she believed you had taken the money from escrow. You'd earned the offer, Kate. I hope, once you've had time to think it over, you'll accept it."
It was difficult to deal with despair and elation at once. Not long before she would have leapt at such an offer, seized it, hugged it to her. She opened her mouth, certain that acceptance would pop out.
"I do need some time." She heard her own words with a kind of vague surprise. "I have to think it through."
"Of course you do. Please, before you consider going elsewhere, give us a chance to negotiate."
"Yes, I will." She held out a hand, just as Byron and the detective returned. "Thank you for coming to see me."
She was still dazed when she led Bittle and Detective Kusak out, said her good-byes. In silence she walked back into the house with Byron, stood staring at nothing.
"Well?" he prompted.
"He offered me a partnership." She said each word slowly, unsure whether she was savoring them or weighing them.
"Not just to make up for all this. They'd already voted on it before everything got screwed up. He's willing to negotiate my terms."
Byron angled his head. "Why aren't you smiling?"
"Huh?" She blinked, stared at him, then burst into laughter. "A partnership!" She threw her arms around his neck and let him swing her. "Byron, I can't tell you what this means to me. I'm too dazzled to tell myself. It's like - it's like being cut from the minors, then being signed to bat cleanup for the Yankees."
"The Braves," he corrected, home team loyal to the last "Congratulations. I think we should have mimosas with that French toast."
"Let's." She kissed him hard. "And go light on the OJ."
"A dollop for color," he assured her, as they walked into the kitchen arm in arm. He released her to get champagne out of the refrigerator. "Well, aren't you going to pick up the phone?"
She opened the glass-fronted cabinet that held his wine glasses. "The phone?"
"To call your family?"
"Uh-uh. This is too big for the phone. As soon as we eat - " she grinned foolishly at the pop of the cork - "I'm going to Templeton House. This requires the personal touch. It's the perfect way to send Aunt Susie and Uncle Tommy back to France." The minute he'd finished pouring she lifted her glass. "Here's to the IRS."
He hissed through his teeth. "Do we have to?"
"Okay, what the hell. Here's to me." She drank, twirled once, then drank again. "You'll come with me, won't you? We'll get Mrs. Williamson to make one of her incredible dinners. We'll take the dogs, too. We can - What are you looking at?"
"You. I like seeing you happy."
"Get that French toast going and you'll see me ecstatic. I'm starving."
"Give the master room, please." He took out eggs and milk.
"Why don't we swing by your apartment and pick up a few more of your things? We can extend our celebration by having you stay another night."
"Okay." She was too high to think of objecting, though it broke her unspoken rule of staying more than two nights running. "I'll get it," she said when the phone rang. "You keep cooking. And use lots of cinnamon. Hello? Laura, hi. I was just thinking about you." Grinning, she swung over to nip at Byron's ear as he whisked. "We were going to come over later and invite ourselves to dinner. I have some news that I - What?"
She fell into silence and the hand she'd lifted to mess with Byron's hair dropped back to her side. "When? At the - yes. Oh, God. Oh, God. Okay, we'll be right there. We're on our way. It's Margo," she said, fumbling to disconnect the portable phone. "Josh took her to the hospital."
"The baby?"
"I don't know. I just don't know. It's too early for the baby. She had pain, and some bleeding. Oh, God, Byron."
"Come on." He clasped the hand that reached for his. "Let's go."