Ridge: The Avenger

Dara had rejected this suggestion every time he’d made it. She could handle the instructions, and though he hadn’t made any jokes, she could have handled them, too. She just didn’t want him touching her. He made her feel flustered. “We’ve been over this. You won’t be able to pull me in the parade. I need to be able to do it myself.”

“And you will. This is just one of the steps m learning. C’mon.” He gently urged her to her feet.

Immediately feeling her feet roll in opposite directions, she grasped for Ridge. “I’m going to fall again,” she said, half warning, half plea. “I’m going to—”

Ridge pulled her flush against the front of him. “No, you’re not,” he growled, his voice full of determination, his body a wall of rock-solid strength.

Struggling for a sense of balance that was depressingly elusive, she looked up at him and shook her head. “You’re taking this personally and you really shouldn’t. I warned you it would take a miracle. I told you—”

Ridge’s hard gaze met hers and Dara bit her tongue. “You will learn to skate. I’ll make sure of it.”

She had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Have you always been this strong-willed?”

Something flickered in his eyes, perhaps a memory, Dara thought, because his expression relaxed slightly.

“Yeah, I guess I have,” he said. “What about you?”

She was surprised by his assessment. Most people didn’t remark on her will. For the most part, Dara thought she kept that quality well hidden. She glanced down. “No. As a matter of fact, I haven’t.”

“Make your skates face forward,” he told her. “And hold on.”

“Don’t worry,” she murmured, concentrating on her feet.

“Look up. If you watch your feet, you’ll end up tripping. You have to watch where you’re going.”

He started skating backward, pulling her gently along. “So when did you develop your stubbornness?”

“I thought we used the term strong-willed.” Keeping her gaze trained over Ridge’s right shoulder, Dara tried not to think about the warm, bulging biceps she was clinging to, the way Ridge’s hands curled around her waist, and the brush of his spearmint-scented breath over her face as he chuckled.

“Okay,” he conceded. “Strong-willed.”

Their speed picked up the slightest bit and Dara tightened her grasp. “My mother raised me, and she was sick a lot when I was growing up. I guess you could say it was a case of what doesn’t destroy us makes us stronger.” She felt his gaze on her and looked up at him to find him regarding her intently. “What?”

He paused. “My mother was sick a lot, too.”

She felt a wave of understanding and saw the same emotion mirrored on his face. In that one moment there was a link between them, a shared experience that had shaped and hurt and left its imprint.

In some corner of her mind she heard a bird chirping and felt the October breeze brush over her, but her senses were dominated by the man who held her in his arms. As she clung to him, she sensed they’d both stepped onto a tiny piece of common ground, and for the first time in months she didn’t feel alone. “How long was she sick?”

Ridge slowed, and the distance between their bodies dwindled from inches to centimeters. “From the time I was born until the day she died. She was a drug addict.”

She heard the grief, and again, identified with it. His gaze flickered between her eyes and mouth, and Dara held her breath. His eyes were tawny, nearly topaz. She’d always thought of them as unusual, and now she knew why. They reminded her of a lion’s eyes, compelling and a bit untamed. A ripple of awareness quivered and quaked inside her.

His closeness was an emotional and sensual seduction more powerful than anything she’d ever experienced. It scraped off the layer of poise she’d hidden behind for months, leaving her bare. His chest was no more than a breath away from her breasts. Her heart pounded, and she didn’t know if she should stop the spell or make it last. But another need surfaced, the need to be known.

“My mother is mentally ill,” Dara confided quietly. “She wasn’t diagnosed for a long time. When she stays on her medication, she does well, but sometimes she forgets.” She took a deep breath. “I always thought it would have been nice to have my dad around, but he wasn’t.” She shrugged, suddenly wondering if she’d revealed too much. “What about your father?”

Ridge’s gaze turned turbulent. “He wasn’t in the picture, either.”

“My father died. He-”

“Mine might as well have,” Ridge said, his tone flat, his eyes giving away the anger.

Dara sensed an immediate distancing from him, and felt upset. It was as if he had teased her by opening the door a crack, then slamming it quickly. Stiffening in distress, she looked down and immediately stumbled, the movement throwing her against Ridge’s chest again. “Oh! I’m sorry. I think-”

“You looked down again,” Ridge said in a low voice that made her too aware of how close his mouth was to her forehead.

Desperately struggling for her equilibrium, she shook her head. “I know, I know. It’s a terrible habit, isn’t it? I think the lesson has lasted long enough.” She pushed ineffectually at his chest. “This sidewalk’s done enough damage to my rear—”

Ridge swore. “Stop pushing me away. You’ll fall again.”

Falling was okay, Dara thought. Falling was easier than being held by Ridge. “Then I’ll just sit down so I can get out of these skates,” she announced, immediately bending her knees.

“Let me help—” Ridge began to kneel.

“No!”

Ridge stared at her.

Dara winced. She lowered her voice and managed a small smile, but she didn’t even attempt looking at him. “I appreciate it, but I can do this much myself. Really,” she insisted when he sat beside her. “You’ve done too much.”

Dara meant that last statement with all of her heart. In more ways than one, and in every way that counted, Ridge had done entirely too much.

After they left the park Ridge gave Dara a wide berth, as much for himself as for her. Quiet and guarded, she kept her conversation with him to a minimum. It was so different from the openness she’d exhibited that he felt a strange sense of loss. He wasn’t totally sure what had happened back there, but he knew it shouldn’t happen again. There was one thing he was sure of, though.

He had wanted to kiss her.

Not just a gentle, friendly brushing of their lips. What he’d really wanted was to taste her, to slide past her lips and teeth and take her breath and let her take his. He’d wanted the tangle of her sweet tongue with his. And if he were honest, he would admit that he wanted to join more than his mouth with Dara.

Stifling an oath, Ridge decided honesty was definitely overrated. He needed Dara for one thing, and it wasn’t sex. He needed her to get to Montgomery.

When they returned to the hotel suite, Dara flipped through her messages and frowned. “I’ve got some calls to make. My mother and Drew,” Dara said, looking worried. She headed for her bedroom.

The expression on her face gnawed at him. “Is she okay?”

Dara glanced over her shoulder, meeting his gaze for the first time since they’d left the park. Caution and need smoldered in the blue depths of her eyes. Ridge wondered how he’d ever thought of her as cool and superficial. “I don’t know,” she said, and hesitated for a moment. Then her lashes swept down, shuttering her eyes from him. “Thanks for asking.”

Two hours later, after Ridge had heard the faint lilt of her voice beyond the wall and the rush of water for her bath, Dara came back into the darkened living room of the suite where he sat watching a ballgame on TV. Dara gave a covetous glance to the two slices of pizza left in the box.

“You can have it,” Ridge offered.

“Are you sure?” Standing in front of the coffee table, she paused, wondering if she should have just stayed in her room the rest of the night. She could have waited until tomorrow to tell Ridge about the change in schedule, but she’d felt restless and hungry.

“I’m sure.” Rising, he took a few steps into the adjoining kitchenette and opened the refrigerator. “Beer or cola?”

Dara nudged the olives off a piece of pizza and took a bite. “I don’t suppose there’s a margarita or two in there.”

Ridge cracked a smile at the wistfulness in her voice. “No, but I’m sure we could get one sent up from the bar.”