What Are Friends For?
Which was a damned shame, he found himself suddenly thinking. A real damned shame...
He set the glass on the counter, then slipped both arms around her and nuzzled the side of her throat. “You know what I was just thinking?” he purred against her ear.
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“I was just thinking that we could take the day off. The Becktron deal can wait a day or two—if anything, it’ll just make Desmond Beck more agreeable.” Her skin was slightly salty, and Conn ran the tip of his tongue around the lobe of her ear, feeling her give a tiny start. He wondered why he’d never done this before. Hell, it wasn’t as though the idea hadn’t occurred to him now and again. But it just never seemed...well, right, somehow, making a pass at your best friend.
“Connor...” There was a hint of alarm in her voice.
“I have another idea, too,” he murmured, running one hand gently up under her sweater and settling his palm on warm, bare flesh, caressing her gently.
“Conn...” She’d stiffened at the first touch of his hand on her abdomen, as though not entirely believing what he was doing.
“We could go to bed for an hour or two,” he whispered, slipping the fingers of his left hand under the waistband of her jeans while letting his right glide up to lightly touch her breasts through silk and lace. They were warm and full and he remembered how sensitive they’d been those long twelve years ago, how she’d groaned softly when he’d—
“Connor...!” Breathless with surprise, she recoiled back against him.
“God, you feel good,” he growled, filling his hands with the incredible softness and warmth of her. “I’d forgotten how good you feel, Andie.” Nuzzling her throat, he splayed his fingers across her belly and pulled her against him, pressing gently against her, already fully aroused.
“Remember what it was like that weekend up at Mount Baker?” He felt her breath catch very slightly and smiled, running his fingertips along the edge of her bra and hoping she still wore the kind that fastened in front, smiling again when he discovered that she did. “We could have that kind of magic again, Andie. We could—”
“Conn, wh-what are you doing?” Her voice was just a dazed whisper.
“What the hell do you think I’m doing?” he asked with a throaty chuckle. “It’s been a while, but I think it’s called foreplay....”
He thought about what it had been like, making love to Andie that first time, wild and vital and so hungry for each other they’d practically gone up in smoke.
Twelve years later, and he could remember that first long silken slide into heaven as though it had happened no more than an hour ago. Could still hear the soft noise she’d made deep in her throat, the way her body had taken him, welcomed him, loved him as he’d pressed deep, deep...slaking himself in the hot, satin depths of her.
Conn groaned and moved against her. The catch on her bra gave way easily. He caressed her breasts, the nipples hard against his palm, and he could hear her moan very softly as he rubbed them, teased them.
She’d grabbed his wrist and he felt her fingers tighten convulsively. He remembered what it had been like with her twelve years ago, how she’d gasped with pleasure the first time he’d taken one taut nipple into his mouth, sucking it, caressing it with his tongue.
He remembered other things, too...touching her for the very first time, fingers seeking, finding, teasing. The way she’d pressed her thighs together, embarrassed and a little uncertain, until finally, with a soft sigh of raw pleasure, she’d relaxed and had let him ease his hand under the narrow bikini panties she’d been wearing. She’d been fire and honey and hot silken need, and in no time at all she’d arched against his hand, eyes wide with shock and delight.
The knot in his belly tightened, and he moved against her again, pressing himself against her round, denim-clad bottom and feeling his own breath catch. He slipped the metal button on her waistband free and tugged the zipper down impatiently, slipping his hand inside to cup the feminine curve of her belly before sliding down and beneath the band of her panties. “Andie, I want you....” he groaned, moving evocatively against her.
“Connor!” The word was little more than a gasp. “P-please!”
Growling something, he drew his hand from her and turned her in his arms, pressing her back against the dishwasher, one thigh pressing between hers even as he slipped his fingers into her hair. Tipping her face up, he brought his mouth down over hers, tongue sliding deep, seeking hers, finding it, as familiar and welcoming as coming home. She kissed him back, her arms going around his neck, lithe body arching against his....
And then, very suddenly, she wrenched her mouth away and turned her face so he couldn’t kiss her again, planting both hands on his shoulders and pushing him firmly away. “Damn it, Connor, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“Kissing you,” he muttered, trying to do it again. “Damn it, Andie, quit turning away and—”
“Stop it!”
She was stronger than he would have guessed and she shoved him back roughly, panting for breath, cheeks flushed, eyes snapping. Giving her head a toss to get her tousled hair out of her eyes, she glared up at him. “Back off!”
“Andie, for the love of—!” Swearing, he took a step back, blood hammering in his temples, so aroused it hurt just to stand there, breathing hard. “What’s wrong? What the hell is—?”
“I am not some vacant pair of hips you can just use when the mood strikes you, mister! If you need to reaffirm your manhood or drown your sorrows or celebrate your newfound bachelor status or whatever the hell it is you’re doing, fine—but not with me!”
“What?” Conn just stared down at her, mind spinning with confusion. “Honey, that’s not what—”
“No!” Mouth tight with fury, she glowered right back up at him, wrenching the gaping fly of her jeans closed, then reaching under her sweater and fastening her bra. “Is that why you called me over here tonight? Because you’re feeling a little sorry for yourself and figure all you need to get over the divorce blues is a good—”
“Don’t even say it,” he growled, raking his fingers through his hair. “Look, I—” Swearing ferociously, he wheeled away and planted his hands on the edge of the counter, letting his head sag, eyes closed. “I’m sorry,” he muttered finally. “Damn it, Andie, I’m sorry. I don’t know what...” He shook his head.
And he didn’t know, he realized glumly. Sure, now and again he’d thought about what it would be like to make love to her again, but it was more out of idle curiosity than any real sense of desire. She was Andie, for crying out loud. His best friend. And a person didn’t hit on his best friend!
“I’m sorry, too,” she said finally, sounding subdued. “It was... Let’s just forget it, okay? It’s five-thirty in the morning, I’m tired, you’re a little drunk....”
Her small hand settled warmly between his shoulder blades, moving in soothing circles. “You’re my best friend, Devlin. That doesn’t mean I won’t punch your lights out if you try something like this again, but let’s not make a big deal out of it, okay?” She leaned close and kissed him lightly on the cheek, her breast pressing against his arm for a fleeting moment. “Go take a shower—a cold shower. I’ll make some breakfast.”
In spite of himself, Conn had to grin. Straightening, he reached out and caught her by the hand as she started to step away. “Why don’t you come with me? Hell, darlin’, it’s been twelve years since we shared a shower. There are worse ways to start a morning.”
“You’re pushing your luck, Devlin,” she replied mildly, planting her outstretched fingers in the middle of his chest and holding him firmly at bay.
He smiled down at her, wondering what he’d ever done to deserve a woman like this in his life. Even at arm’s length, she was the best thing that had ever happened to him. “If I’d had any damn sense at all, I’d have married you eleven years ago instead of Liza,” he said half-seriously.
She hesitated for just a split second, an odd expression crossing her face. Then she smiled carelessly. “And ruin a perfectly good friendship, Devlin? We nearly did that by sleeping together that weekend up at Mount Baker. Remember?”
“Oh, I remember,” he said with a growl.
“And if you remember all of it, we agreed that our friendship was more important than sex. And that—”
“Spectacular sex,” he amended straight-faced. “We did agree it was pretty spectacular sex, Andie.”
“Yes, all right, spectacular sex.” She was trying not to laugh. “But we agreed that good friends are harder to find than lovers, remember. Even good lovers.”
“Great lovers, even,” he agreed blandly.
“Great?” She looked pleasantly surprised. “You really thought I was—?” She caught herself abruptly. Shrugging offhandedly, she stepped past him, avoiding his eyes. “Go take a shower, Devlin.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Grinning, he headed for the kitchen door. “And yeah, you were great. Once we got past all the virginal inhibitions, darlin’, you were—”
“Censor that,” she said quickly, suddenly very busy rummaging through the refrigerator. “Eggs...bread... How about French toast for breakfast?”
“I’m easy.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Feel free to take advantage of it.”
“You wish.”
Sometimes, Conn found himself thinking, glancing at her with an unexpected twinge of wistfulness. Sometimes I do wish, darlin’....
But he couldn’t say it aloud, of course. Not to his best friend.
Two
Staying there—setting the glass-topped rattan table in the big sun room off the kitchen, making French toast, pouring orange juice—was one of the hardest things Andie had ever done.
Every instinct she had was telling her to run. To hide. To shut herself up in her apartment and pull the covers over her head and simply die of mortification.
One touch—that’s all it had taken. One touch and she’d all but melted in his arms like overheated taffy, as pliant and eager as any teenager. Where she’d found the strength to push him away, she’d never know. Because she hadn’t wanted to. All she’d wanted was for him to strip her out of her jeans and ease her down onto the floor and make love to her as though his very life depended on it.
Shoving a handful of tangled hair off her forehead, she took a deep breath and wet her lips, closing her eyes for a calming minute. It was all right. She could handle this.
The secret was to stay cool and simply pretend it had meant nothing. Nothing at all.
Conn wasn’t drunk, but he’d had more to drink than normal. He’d been hurting, vulnerable, off balance—all alien emotions for a man who prided himself on his pragmatic and levelheaded approach to life. She’d been there, warm and female and reassuringly familiar. His best friend, his confidant, the one person who probably knew him better than anyone. What more normal thing to do than reach for her, seeking to put his world right again through the comforting rituals of lovemaking?
Odds were that he wouldn’t even remember the incident in a day or two.
So no harm had been done.
As long as she kept the whole incident in perspective, she reminded herself grimly. As long as she didn’t try to delude herself into believing that Conn, with blinding insight that had eluded him for twelve years, had suddenly recognized that she was the only woman for him.
Feeling more in control, she added a few drops of vanilla and a sprinkle of sugar to the cream and eggs, then started beating them with a wire whisk. It was time, she told herself calmly. In three weeks, she was going to be thirty years old. Too old to still believe in miracles. It was time she shook herself free of Conn once and for all and got on with her life, because she would be damned if she was going to turn into one of those silly calf-eyed women who waits and waits and waits...and then one day wakes up to realize that an entire lifetime has slipped by and her dreams have turned to dust.
The French toast had cooked to a deep golden brown by the time Andie heard the shower go off. A couple of minutes later Conn padded into the kitchen in a waft of soap-scented steam, cleanly shaven and barefoot, dressed in a ragged old pair of denim cutoffs and nothing else. He was still fit and lean, she noticed idly, his shoulders still solid, belly still flat and hard. And he could still make her heart give that silly little leap with just one lazy grin.
Ignoring it, she simply smiled. “You look almost human again. Feel better?”
“Actually, I feel like a damned fool,” he muttered. Walking across to her, he bent down to give her a chaste—and chastened—peck on the cheek. “Sorry. I don’t know what the hell I thought I was doing, grabbing you like that. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
As she knew all too well, Andie thought wearily. “Forget it, Devlin,” she told him easily. “You’re a man. Men do stupid things all the time. It’s what makes you so endearing.” Refusing to think about it, she slid three thick slices of French toast onto a warmed plate and handed it to him. “Eat this. You still look a little rough around the edges.”
“Feel a little rough around the edges.” Grinning, he took the plate and padded into the sun room, raking his fingers through his wet hair. “I still can’t believe I had the brass to haul you out of bed and all the way out here just because I was feeling sorry for myself.”
“You’re allowed,” she replied casually, carrying her own plate across to the table and sitting down. “Most of the time you’re an intelligent, competent businessman with a solid grasp on his life and destiny. I figure you’re entitled to one night of generalized stupidity, all considered. Just don’t make a habit of it.”
Conn winced slightly. “Point taken. Still friends?”
“Forever.” She said it easily, the ritual as old as their friendship.
Conn just nodded, prodding the French toast thoughtfully. He’d been thinking about Andie in the shower—a few salacious thoughts, granted, but it had been more than that. Thinking about how she was always there for him, about how he sometimes just took for granted that all he had to do was shout and she’d be there, calm and collected and in control.
“You, uh...” He looked at her thoughtfully. “You didn’t really have someone with you when I called tonight, did you?”
Andie stared at him, fork halfway to her mouth. “What a question to ask!”
“You would tell me, wouldn’t you? If you were getting serious about someone?”
“It’s the strangest thing....” Andie cocked her head slightly, as though listening to something. “I could swear I hear my mother. Didn’t that just sound like my mother?”
“All right, all right,” he growled. “I know it’s none of my business, but—”
“It is my mother!” She looked around with exaggerated surprise. “I was sure she was in Portland this week.”
“Don’t be a wise guy,” Conn muttered. “I’m dead serious, Andie.” Realizing, with some surprise, that he meant it. “We’ve never kept secrets from each other. I know you and that French banker, André or Albert or whatever his name is, have been seeing a lot of each other lately.”
She leaned back with an exaggerated sigh, crossing her arms. “I presume you mean Alain DeRocher, the French-Canadian investment analyst you introduced me to last year. Yes, we have been seeing each other pretty often, or as often as possible, considering I live on one side of the continent and he lives on the other. And no, he wasn’t with me tonight. Nor was anyone else, for that matter. Happy?”
Conn gave a grunt, only half-mollified. “So you and he aren’t...?” He lifted his eyebrow eloquently.
“Connor!” She gave a burst of laughter. “It’s none of your business if we are!” Still grinning, she looked at him with amusement. “Although, to forestall any more questioning, no, we are not—yet,” she added slyly.
“Yet.” Conn’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Meaning he’s thinking about it.”
“Of course he’s thinking about it—he’s French!”
“And you’d...?” He lifted his eyebrow again.
“Now that’s really none of your business!”
“So you’re thinking about it, too.”
“Connor!” Andie took a deep breath, then let it out again with a quiet laugh. “I bet he would at least bring me flowers and wine before trying to peel me out of my jeans.”
Conn winced. “I said I was sorry about that, damn it.”
“Mmm.” She looked at him for a moment, an odd expression on her face. “What I’m saying, Conn, is that I just don’t know how I feel about him. He’s certainly everything a woman could want....”
Conn gave a grunt, not liking the expression on her face. Not liking the idea of DeRocher trying to peel her out of a damned thing, flowers or no flowers. “He’s too old for you.”
Andie’s left eyebrow arched indolently. “Excuse me?”
“Well, hell, he’s got to be fifty if he’s a day.”
“Forty-one.”
“Like I said, he’s too old for you.”
“I like older men.” There was a dangerous glow in her eyes.
“He’s probably married.”
“He’s never been married.”
“Never?” It was Conn’s turn to lift his eyebrow. “Don’t you think that’s damn strange? That this perfect specimen of a man has never been married? Doesn’t that tell you something?”
“It tells me,” she said sweetly, “that he is considerably wiser that some men I could mention.”
“Sounds to me as though he’s got some sort of problem. In the fun-and-games department, I mean.”
“Trust me,” Andie shot back even more sweetly. “He has no problem in that area at all.”
“I don’t even want to know how you’ve figured that out if you haven’t even—”
“Didn’t you tell me just last week that you don’t have to take a boat out to know whether it’s going to handle well in heavy weather or not? Gut instinct, I think you said.”
“I also mentioned experience,” Conn said silkily. “And I think I’ve had a bit more experience with sailboats than you’ve had with—”
“Do you have any idea at all of how thin that ice is where you’re standing?”
Conn grinned, cutting into the French toast with his fork. “Hey, I was just trying to make a point. If you like the guy, fine...go with what feels good. Just don’t start getting serious about him or anything, though, because—”
“He’s asked me to marry him.”
She said it quietly, without laughter or even a sly smile to soften it, and Conn nearly choked on a mouthful of toast. “He’s what?” His bellow made her blink. “Marry you? He can’t marry you! It’s out of the damned question!”
“And just why is it out of the question?”
“Because...” He didn’t know for certain, Conn realized, but there was no damned way he was going to let Andie, his Andie, marry some no-good French-Canadian financier and— “Your job, for one thing,” he said with satisfaction. “He lives in Montreal. Your job is here. The commute is a killer.”
“Alain lives in Quebec City,” she said calmly. “His ancestral home is there—all forty-seven rooms of it. His head office is in Montreal, but he’s only there a couple of days a week.”
“Even worse,” Conn growled. “Quebec City is even farther away.”
“I’d quit my job, obviously.”
“Over my dead body.”
“Easily enough arranged, Mr. Devlin.”
“You’re my best friend. You can’t move to Canada—what would I do without you?”
Something flickered across her face, gone before he could figure out what it was. “You’ll manage, Conn. You always do.”
“That’s not the point.” He felt unsettled and angry for no real reason, and he frowned at her, reaching out suddenly to run his finger down the silken sweep of her hair. “You’re not really going to marry him, are you, Andie?”
“I don’t know what you’d have to say about it if I did.” She sounded impatient and a little angry herself, and there was a hint of color across her cheekbones. “I have a life of my own, Connor. You seem to forget that sometimes. I have a right to be happy. My entire existence doesn’t revolve around you, you know.”
Conn looked across the table at her, trying to read her expression. “Are you saying you’re not happy?” He mulled the thought over, trying to make some sense of it. “Are you saying—?”
“I’m not saying anything,” she snapped, stabbing a piece of French toast with her fork. “It’s just that sometimes I think you don’t see me as a person at all. I’m just good old Andie, best friend and blood brother. I take care of your office, make your dental appointments, hire and fire your cleaning staff, pick up your dry cleaning. I make sure you get to meetings on time, that your jet’s fueled up and ready to go when you need it, that your library books get back on time.”
She put the fork down with a bang and looked up at him angrily. “My God, I don’t know why you even bother getting married. I do everything a wife does, without any of the hassles of divorce!”
Conn simply stared at her, trying to figure out just what the hell he should be saying. Knowing that whatever it was, it had better be good. He hadn’t seen her like this in a long time, had no idea what had set her off. “Look, Andie,” he said carefully, feeling his way gingerly through a verbal mine field, “I know I can be—”
“Forget it.” She shoved her chair back and stood up, cheeks flushed slightly. “I know what you’re going to say, and you’re right. You can be a selfish, arrogant bastard at times. But this isn’t about you, it’s about me. I—”
She stopped abruptly, then just shrugged and managed a rough smile. “Oh, don’t look so alarmed, Conn—I’m not going to run off to Canada and marry Alain DeRocher or quit my job or throw dishes or anything. I’m just tired and I needed to let off some steam. Finish your breakfast while I take a shower, and I promise that by the time I come out I’ll be back to normal.”
“Hey, Andie?” Conn got to his feet in one easy move, reaching out to grab her arm gently as she turned to leave. “Hey, darlin’, I’m sorry. I had no right dragging you out of bed to come over here and hold my hand. And I sure as hell have no right trying to tell you who you should or shouldn’t date or marry or sleep with or whatever. If you want to do the nasty with old DeRocher, hey—you’ve got my blessing.”
For a split second, Andie was seriously tempted to plant her open palm across his cheek with every bit of strength she possessed just to see if that would shake him up a bit. But even as the urge hit her, it vanished again, leaving her struggling not to laugh with the sheer impossibility of the man. “No wonder women fall all over themselves to marry you, Connor Devlin,” she finally said. “You’re the most romantic devil I’ve met in years!”
Still laughing, she turned and left him standing there with a perplexed expression on his handsome face, suddenly afraid that if she stayed in the room with him for even another instant, she’d burst into tears.
* * *
Four hours, three cups of coffee and a crisis or two later, Andie was still having trouble concentrating, the memory of Conn’s strong, muscled body pressed intimately against hers just a little too vivid for comfort.
She’d be fine for a while, her mind focused on work with its usual laserlike intensity, but then she’d remember the warmth of his breath on her throat or the way his roughened palm had cradled her breast. Without warning, her breath would catch and her thoughts would go leaping off into all sorts of inappropriate directions, and she’d find herself sitting at her desk, staring blankly at some piece of paper, or look up and see someone looking down at her expectantly and realize they’d asked her a question she hadn’t even heard.
“If I didn’t know better,” her secretary finally said with an all-too-shrewd look, “I’d say you’d spent the night in the sack with some seriously bodacious guy, drinking champagne and making love until the sun came up.”