Windward Whisperings by Kathleen Rowland Page A

house looked to be one story from the front, but
the roof pitched. The back of the house was two-story with a stairway leading to its second level. He
scanned the high ceiling and plaster walls. Oak bookcases with well-bound books flanked a stone
fireplace. “I like the wainscoting and crown molding in here,” he shouted.
“They cover up cracks.”
Her living room contained priceless antiques, all comfortable, tasteful, and not extravagant. Two
French country loveseats of solid blue and cream piping faced each other. Under the furniture was a
blue-toned oriental rug, slightly ragged at the edges. Lemon polish scented the air. A grandfather
clock ticked quietly.
The new bay window, framed in oak, caught the sea breeze. The papaya yellow walls were a
lively backdrop.
He followed along a gleaming, maple plank floor to a kitchen. She rattled off an assortment of
beverages. Placing his navy jacket over the back of a chair, he picked beer. “Kitzie, you look
magnificent. Love the cute apron.”
“I love sunflowers. I always sow seeds in the summer.” She ripped open a plastic bag of mixed
baby greens. She dumped the package on a plate, threw in a few walnuts, some cherry tomatoes, and
crumbled Gorgonzola. “I’m tossing this with vinaigrette. It’s the best there is, Newman’s Own Light
Balsamic.”
“I keep the same brand at my place.” He watched her dribble dressing over the salad. Her hips
swiveled when she set down the bottle. Her feet looked pretty in her laced-up spikes.
“Bon appetit.” Her chocolate eyes took his breath away.
An hour crept by. Her dinner was superb, and he couldn’t help but groan with satisfaction. He
hadn’t expected she’d turned into a domestic diva. All he could do was look across the table and
marvel at her.
There was something about a beautiful woman cooking. It drove him to rave on and on. They
hashed over old times and people they both knew. Most worked in Los Angeles now, she told him,
and mentioned Biltmore because he was from L.A.
Thor appeared and gobbled a remaining crab cake. Garrett decided to be helpful and brought
dishes to the kitchen.
In no time at all, she had the dishes stashed in a portable dishwasher, had it hooked up to the
kitchen faucet, and turned it on. She approached him with a slow, seductive walk and in striptease
fashion, removed her apron, twirled it overhead, and let it drop.
He bent close enough for a kiss and traced his fingertips up the line of her jaw. “Dinner’s over.
Can I kiss you?”
“I couldn’t possibly resist.” Her dark eyes skewered him, and her words flowed easily.
He brushed her cool lips with his. They fused for a deeper kiss, and her lips warmed. He tangled
his hands through her thick hair. “Do you still like me?” he whispered against her ear.
“Maybe a little.” She closed her eyes, and he kissed her lids.
Every inch of him was aroused.
She kissed him back with feeling and blinked her eyes open. “That’s just a little invitation.”
“Invitation accepted.” Never had he wanted a woman more, and he’d had more than a few. He
burned with a special hunger never entirely forgotten. He took her hand, led her into the living
room, and seated himself on one of the loveseats. He watched Thor disappear through a doggy door
low in the living room wall. “Sedona would make a better junkyard dog than Thor.”
“Maybe.” Her voice was a rusty whisper. She perched on his knees, adjusting her black skirt as
she straddled him. Her arms went around his head. She kissed his forehead, nestling her mouth
under his toppling hair. Her eyes drifted shut.
He put his thumbs under the straps of her tank and pulled them over her shoulders. “Offer your
breasts to me and moan while I tease your nipples until they’re hard and aching.”
“You were always good at that.” She bit down on her lower lip to keep from laughing. She
wiggled her shoulders until the garment fell, exposing her full, brown-sugar