Anything You Can Do(41)

A large gentleman staggered backward from the burgeoning crowd, into their table, splashing more wine on her hand. As she and Austin grabbed the table to steady it, the man grunted and disappeared back into his group.

The incident caused them to shift just enough so Bailey's knee was pressing against Austin's. Her heart began to hammer. Even through the layers of clothes, she could feel excruciatingly wonderful tingles.

Nevertheless, she started to move away from the accidental touch then stopped. Maybe it wasn't an accident on his part. He'd think she was rejecting him if she pulled away. But if it was an accident and she didn't move, then what would he think of her? On the other hand, he certainly wasn't moving.

With a forced laugh, she waved her dripping hand in the air. "Some people are such knees—such heedless people!"

Oh, jeez! She hadn't really said that. Please, God, she hadn't really said that.

"No harm done," Austin replied.

Just how did he mean that? Harm done to, and by, whom? Her leg froze. She couldn't have budged it if someone had yelled, Fire.

Austin half turned in his chair to signal the waitress, but his knee didn't move.

Bailey had never before realized there were so many nerve endings in her knee, and that they led upward into so many other, seemingly unconnected, parts of her body. She was suddenly very aware of the tips of her breasts pushing against the soft fabric of her bra. Her breathing came rapid and shallow, a far cry from her normal slow, deep, athletic respiration.

Finally the menus arrived, she opened hers and pretended to study it intently though the print refused to focus.

"What are you having?" Austin asked, closing his menu.

She always got the same thing, but at the moment, she couldn't remember what it was. "Oh, anything. Whatever you're having. I'm easy." She flinched inwardly as she heard the last words escape from her treacherous mouth.

But Austin didn't seem to notice. He appeared relaxed and in control as he lifted his glass of beer to his lips. Was it possible he hadn't noticed the contact? His leg seemed to move slightly, press closer to hers. Or maybe it was only her imagination conjuring up what she wanted to happen.

"Excuse me, I have to find the ladies' room," she blurted out, leaping up from the table.

"More wine?" he asked, indicating her almost empty glass.

"No. Iced tea." If she couldn't control herself on one glass of wine, she'd better not have any more.

In the ladies' room she closeted herself in a cubicle and leaned against the wall. Maybe she could just stay there forever. This was worse than high school, more humiliating. Because, she realized, it was more important. Being popular in school mattered, but not as much as impressing someone special, making that person like you. And, heaven help her, she wanted Austin to like her. She wanted him to look at her again the way he had that night in the park.

She drew in a deep breath and thrust her chin forward. She'd never reach the finish line with an attitude like that. She would go back out there and be so sweet and so clever, he'd forget the first part of the evening. She could do it. Her motto had always been: If someone else can do it, so can I, and do it just a little bit better.

Shoulders back, she pushed open the door, stepped out, saw herself in the mirror above the sink, and groaned. Makeup certainly had a short half-life.

Waiting for Bailey to return, Austin leaned back in his chair, his heart racing. Damn the woman! She had him incredibly aroused just by touching his leg. It was a good thing there weren't any bushes around to throw her behind or he'd probably lose control again.

Though he wasn't sure she would be so receptive this time. She seemed bored with the whole evening, didn't even want another drink.

He still didn't understand her recent actions—running away from him, physically and emotionally, after making love on Sunday night; appearing totally confused but no longer angry at lunch on Monday; and now, seemingly eager to meet him here, allowing his leg to touch hers, then bolting from the room. She was a very frustrating woman, weaving—no, make that crashing—her way into the core of his being then retreating frostily.

Lifting his glass, he drained the last few sips of his beer, his mind registering peripherally that it had gone flat and stale. He usually left that last half inch, but Bailey had driven him to unusual behavior.

Across the room he saw her coming back to the table, elegant litheness moving through the chaos.

His fist clenched tightly. He would take charge of the situation, force sense from this chaos. With a macho gesture, he raised his beer glass to his lips and tossed his head back. As Bailey reached the table, he set it back down, hoping in the dim light she hadn't noticed he'd tried to drink from an empty glass.