said roundly, "is no promise!"
She giggled. "I promise. No shotgun wedding."
"I'm too limp to argue," he confessed wryly.
"Good. Listen, there's a dandy old movie on the late show tonight. D'you think—?"
"Why not?" He sighed again, then said in a stronger voice, "Now, since you're obviously too shameless to put your dress back on, I'm going to go find you a robe."
Taylor looked down at herself in some surprise. "I'd forgotten."
"I hadn't!" he said definitely, and he went in search of a robe with which to cover his love's distracting charms.
Chapter Seven
It didn't take long to clear up the remains of Taylor's candlelight dinner. Items borrowed from her restaurant friend were washed and packed neatly back into their baskets so they could be returned the next day.
Then it was time for the late show.
A bowl of popcorn sat decorously between them on the couch. Taylor, who had categorically refused to don her dress on the grounds that what was comfortable for seduction was uncomfortable for television-viewing, was nearly swallowed whole by Trevor's blue velour robe. Legs crossed at the ankles and feet propped on his coffee table, she chatted amiably to him during commercials, clearly undisturbed by her failure to seduce him.
The violent emotions and laughter of the evening had taken their toll on Trevor. He divided his bemused attention between the TV screen and Taylor's profile, trying mentally to light a fire under those scruples of his so that he could insist on taking her home. But that fire would only sputter and die.
She'd forced his hand by coming to him, but he couldn't find it in himself to be sorry about that. Fighting his own desire to be with her had turned him into a restless, angry bear for five interminable days. He loved being with her. She turned his world upside down, but she made him laugh, and a dim part of him recognized that he hadn't laughed enough in his life.
No matter how determined he was to edge himself painlessly out of her life, he knew ruefully just how useless that determination was; if he'd had to fight only himself or only her he might have managed to walk away from her. He couldn't fight them both. And whenever he allowed himself to hope he might be able to live with her unusual gifts, a dark and primitive panic stirred in his mind.
It certainly occurred to him that he'd felt no discomfort in being with Taylor since that first day, but he couldn't deceive himself into believing the battle won. It might not have bothered him too much thus far, but there was a vast difference between a couple of weeks and thirty or forty years. And he knew himself too well not to be certain that he needed the privacy of his own mind.
Now, as they watched an old horror movie on television, he silently acknowledged the fact that he needed her, too. It was more than love, or at least more than he knew love to be. He was not fanciful, but he thought that the "more than love" he felt might well be an instinctive recognition of—a kindred spirit. More, perhaps. The other half of himself.. . perhaps.
Could he, with the best of intentions, with the best will in the world, walk away from that?
"You're getting upset again," she said softly.
"Stop reading my mind."
Her vivid, honest eyes gazed at him quizzically. "I don't have to read your mind; your face is grim."
"I'm a lousy companion, in fact," he said lightly.
"No. Just a troubled one. Are you... angry with me, Trevor?"
He blinked in surprise. "With you? No, of course not. Why should I be angry with you?"
Taylor's smile was a little crooked. "Well, I haven't exactly been conventional. In fact, as you said, I've been shameless. But have I been . .. wrong?"
"Wrong?" He bit back a sudden laugh. 'Taylor, that's a hell of a question to ask me."
"Why?"
"Because I don't know right from wrong when I'm with you." Then he corrected himself wryly. "No, that isn't true. I know what's wrong, and it isn't you. It's me."
"Wrong for me, you mean?"
He
She giggled. "I promise. No shotgun wedding."
"I'm too limp to argue," he confessed wryly.
"Good. Listen, there's a dandy old movie on the late show tonight. D'you think—?"
"Why not?" He sighed again, then said in a stronger voice, "Now, since you're obviously too shameless to put your dress back on, I'm going to go find you a robe."
Taylor looked down at herself in some surprise. "I'd forgotten."
"I hadn't!" he said definitely, and he went in search of a robe with which to cover his love's distracting charms.
Chapter Seven
It didn't take long to clear up the remains of Taylor's candlelight dinner. Items borrowed from her restaurant friend were washed and packed neatly back into their baskets so they could be returned the next day.
Then it was time for the late show.
A bowl of popcorn sat decorously between them on the couch. Taylor, who had categorically refused to don her dress on the grounds that what was comfortable for seduction was uncomfortable for television-viewing, was nearly swallowed whole by Trevor's blue velour robe. Legs crossed at the ankles and feet propped on his coffee table, she chatted amiably to him during commercials, clearly undisturbed by her failure to seduce him.
The violent emotions and laughter of the evening had taken their toll on Trevor. He divided his bemused attention between the TV screen and Taylor's profile, trying mentally to light a fire under those scruples of his so that he could insist on taking her home. But that fire would only sputter and die.
She'd forced his hand by coming to him, but he couldn't find it in himself to be sorry about that. Fighting his own desire to be with her had turned him into a restless, angry bear for five interminable days. He loved being with her. She turned his world upside down, but she made him laugh, and a dim part of him recognized that he hadn't laughed enough in his life.
No matter how determined he was to edge himself painlessly out of her life, he knew ruefully just how useless that determination was; if he'd had to fight only himself or only her he might have managed to walk away from her. He couldn't fight them both. And whenever he allowed himself to hope he might be able to live with her unusual gifts, a dark and primitive panic stirred in his mind.
It certainly occurred to him that he'd felt no discomfort in being with Taylor since that first day, but he couldn't deceive himself into believing the battle won. It might not have bothered him too much thus far, but there was a vast difference between a couple of weeks and thirty or forty years. And he knew himself too well not to be certain that he needed the privacy of his own mind.
Now, as they watched an old horror movie on television, he silently acknowledged the fact that he needed her, too. It was more than love, or at least more than he knew love to be. He was not fanciful, but he thought that the "more than love" he felt might well be an instinctive recognition of—a kindred spirit. More, perhaps. The other half of himself.. . perhaps.
Could he, with the best of intentions, with the best will in the world, walk away from that?
"You're getting upset again," she said softly.
"Stop reading my mind."
Her vivid, honest eyes gazed at him quizzically. "I don't have to read your mind; your face is grim."
"I'm a lousy companion, in fact," he said lightly.
"No. Just a troubled one. Are you... angry with me, Trevor?"
He blinked in surprise. "With you? No, of course not. Why should I be angry with you?"
Taylor's smile was a little crooked. "Well, I haven't exactly been conventional. In fact, as you said, I've been shameless. But have I been . .. wrong?"
"Wrong?" He bit back a sudden laugh. 'Taylor, that's a hell of a question to ask me."
"Why?"
"Because I don't know right from wrong when I'm with you." Then he corrected himself wryly. "No, that isn't true. I know what's wrong, and it isn't you. It's me."
"Wrong for me, you mean?"
He
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