blue shaded
with silver. The look, almost translucent, was one of serenity. The thought
crossed Walker's mind that maybe that, serenity, was what was missing from his
life. Maybe he was blaming emptiness, and more recently, lack of laughter, when
the truth was that he lacked serenity in his soul.
"That
may be open to debate," he responded to her comment about his feet.
"How's
the knee?" she asked.
"Fine,"
he said. His knee hurt. Like hell. But suddenly the pain seemed unimportant,
even irrelevant.
The
pianist sang softly, of not knowing one's right foot from one's left, one's hat
from one's glove, because one was too misty and too much in love. Walker
realized that he was about as confused as the person in the song, for suddenly,
slowly, he seemed to have stepped into a surreal world. A world he could never
remember inhabiting before. A world composed of nothing but sensation. He was
keenly aware of the small of Lindsey's back, the slight concave where his hand
rested; he was painfully aware of her palm merged with his; he was
bewilderingry aware of the occasional brush of her thighs against his. He was
also aware of wondering if people were watching them and, if so, did they think
them father and daughter? Or, worse, did they think him an old fool? On this
last score, Walker told himself that he was just ultrasensitive because of
Dean's affair.
Lindsey,
too, was inundated with feelings. The hair at the nape of Walker's neck felt
soft and silky beneath her hand, while the hand that held hers felt solid and
strong and big. And then there was the brush of his thighs against
hers—intimate, yet not intimate, socially proper, yet bringing to mind things
forbidden on a public dance floor.
The
song continued, the pianist singing that a thousand violins begin to play when
her lover takes her hand.
Hand.
Her hand. It still felt incredibly warm. Baby warm. Womanly warm. Father. He
didn't feel like her father. Not in the least. In fact, the way she felt in his
arms was decidedly alarming. Primarily because it might be worth risking
feeling like an old fool just to feel this alive.
Alive.
He made her feel alive. Wonderfully alive. So many times she'd wondered if what
she was feeling was right. Was there something wrong in what she felt for this
man? This she'd pondered, questioned, worried about to the nth degree. She'd
decided, though, even before returning home, that what she was feeling had to
be right, simply because it felt right. If she'd needed that fact corroborated,
the feel of his arms did so. In spades.
Acting
on pure instinct, Lindsey sighed and, slipping her hand from his, slid it along
the back of his neck to join her other hand. At the same time, her cheek
nestled against his, while she eased her body one step, two steps closer. The
pose was unquestionably that of a lover's pose.
Lover.
The
thought struck Walker. She felt like a lover in his arms—her fingers gently
kneading the back of his neck, her cheek flush with his cheek, her body swaying
softly, sensuously against, and into, his. It struck him like a bolt out of the
blue that he liked the lover's feel of her. God help him, he liked it!
Abruptly,
he stopped. So did Lindsey. So did the music. As the last dying notes of the
song echoed throughout the room, Lindsey pulled back until her gaze found
Walker's. A lazy, hazy sultriness danced in her eyes. For one crazy moment,
Walker could almost believe that Lindsey was feeling the same thing he was. In
the next instant, however, reality snatched him by the collar. The moment
wasn't crazy. He was. He had to be to think that Lindsey would ever entertain
anything but daughterly feelings for him. As for himself, he was appalled at
his unfatherly feelings. For the love of heaven, he cried silently, what was
happening to him?
Lindsey
saw Walker's confusion and could only pray that she knew its source. Surely she
could not be imagining the longing look in his eyes. Surely she couldn't have
imagined the perfect way
with silver. The look, almost translucent, was one of serenity. The thought
crossed Walker's mind that maybe that, serenity, was what was missing from his
life. Maybe he was blaming emptiness, and more recently, lack of laughter, when
the truth was that he lacked serenity in his soul.
"That
may be open to debate," he responded to her comment about his feet.
"How's
the knee?" she asked.
"Fine,"
he said. His knee hurt. Like hell. But suddenly the pain seemed unimportant,
even irrelevant.
The
pianist sang softly, of not knowing one's right foot from one's left, one's hat
from one's glove, because one was too misty and too much in love. Walker
realized that he was about as confused as the person in the song, for suddenly,
slowly, he seemed to have stepped into a surreal world. A world he could never
remember inhabiting before. A world composed of nothing but sensation. He was
keenly aware of the small of Lindsey's back, the slight concave where his hand
rested; he was painfully aware of her palm merged with his; he was
bewilderingry aware of the occasional brush of her thighs against his. He was
also aware of wondering if people were watching them and, if so, did they think
them father and daughter? Or, worse, did they think him an old fool? On this
last score, Walker told himself that he was just ultrasensitive because of
Dean's affair.
Lindsey,
too, was inundated with feelings. The hair at the nape of Walker's neck felt
soft and silky beneath her hand, while the hand that held hers felt solid and
strong and big. And then there was the brush of his thighs against
hers—intimate, yet not intimate, socially proper, yet bringing to mind things
forbidden on a public dance floor.
The
song continued, the pianist singing that a thousand violins begin to play when
her lover takes her hand.
Hand.
Her hand. It still felt incredibly warm. Baby warm. Womanly warm. Father. He
didn't feel like her father. Not in the least. In fact, the way she felt in his
arms was decidedly alarming. Primarily because it might be worth risking
feeling like an old fool just to feel this alive.
Alive.
He made her feel alive. Wonderfully alive. So many times she'd wondered if what
she was feeling was right. Was there something wrong in what she felt for this
man? This she'd pondered, questioned, worried about to the nth degree. She'd
decided, though, even before returning home, that what she was feeling had to
be right, simply because it felt right. If she'd needed that fact corroborated,
the feel of his arms did so. In spades.
Acting
on pure instinct, Lindsey sighed and, slipping her hand from his, slid it along
the back of his neck to join her other hand. At the same time, her cheek
nestled against his, while she eased her body one step, two steps closer. The
pose was unquestionably that of a lover's pose.
Lover.
The
thought struck Walker. She felt like a lover in his arms—her fingers gently
kneading the back of his neck, her cheek flush with his cheek, her body swaying
softly, sensuously against, and into, his. It struck him like a bolt out of the
blue that he liked the lover's feel of her. God help him, he liked it!
Abruptly,
he stopped. So did Lindsey. So did the music. As the last dying notes of the
song echoed throughout the room, Lindsey pulled back until her gaze found
Walker's. A lazy, hazy sultriness danced in her eyes. For one crazy moment,
Walker could almost believe that Lindsey was feeling the same thing he was. In
the next instant, however, reality snatched him by the collar. The moment
wasn't crazy. He was. He had to be to think that Lindsey would ever entertain
anything but daughterly feelings for him. As for himself, he was appalled at
his unfatherly feelings. For the love of heaven, he cried silently, what was
happening to him?
Lindsey
saw Walker's confusion and could only pray that she knew its source. Surely she
could not be imagining the longing look in his eyes. Surely she couldn't have
imagined the perfect way
Similar Books
