Their intimacy of the night before had been startling. Even though they had done nothing more than kiss and a little light petting, it felt as if they had done so much more. She had felt almost incandescent in his arms, and there hadn’t been anything halfhearted about his erection. She couldn’t lie to herself; they had teetered on the brink of making love, and she had pulled back just in the nick of time.
She couldn’t help wondering what would have happened if she’d forgotten her morals, forgotten that he wasn’t her type, forgotten everything except satisfying herself. No, she didn’t wonder what would have happened, she knew—she just wondered what it would have been like.
She couldn’t get his taste out of her mind. Would the rest of his lovemaking have lived up to his kisses? He kissed like a dream, and tasted like a honeypot. Even if he were the world’s worst lover, which she highly doubted, that would almost be worth putting up with just to get those kisses. On the other hand, going on the theory that a good kisser was also a good lover—she’d read it somewhere—then Jack Russo was something else between the sheets.
Those were not good thoughts to have during a church service. She fidgeted restlessly, and every time she moved, her leg seemed to brush against his. The air-conditioned church was very cool, but she was burning up again and she felt an almost overwhelming urge to kick off her shoes and tear off her dress. Either she was in premature menopause and having hot flashes, or she was hot in a far more basic sense.
She kept sneaking glances at him; she just couldn’t help it. He dressed neatly, conservatively. His shoes were always polished, and that was important. After reading an article that said the state of a man’s shoes reflected his general attitude about himself and others, she’d always looked at shoes and was careful to keep her own footwear clean and polished.
His graying hair was way too short, but it looked good on him. There was just a hint of curl on top, so she suspected he kept it short to keep that curl tamed. He was big, but there was nothing clumsy about him; he moved with a sort of controlled, animalistic grace. And there was no extra weight on him; she’d discovered that last night. He was all rock-solid muscle.
She was spending way too much time thinking about a man who wasn’t her type.
He moved his hand, and the backs of his fingers subtly rubbed against her thigh. Daisy swallowed and stared hard at Reverend Bridges, trying to make sense of what he was saying, but the reverend might as well have been speaking a foreign language.
Jack was seducing her, right there in church, and she knew it. He wasn’t doing anything much—though he was still rubbing her thigh—but then he didn’t have to. He was there, and that was enough. She was doing a very good job of seducing herself, remembering last night and working herself into a lather.
She had to be blowing this all out of proportion, because logic told her no kiss could possibly be as potent as she’d thought last night. It was just that Jack was the first man to kiss her in . . . she couldn’t remember exactly how long. Years. Which was entirely her fault, because she’d been sitting at home instead of getting out and doing something about her unkissed situation. But it had still been years since she’d been kissed, and the fact was, she had gone overboard in her reaction. It probably hadn’t been nearly as exciting to him.
Then she remembered the way his heartbeat had thundered under her hand, and the only way he could have faked that erection was if he’d had a flashlight stuffed in his pants. A big flashlight.
Oh, dear. These were not good thoughts to be having during a sermon.
At last, at last, the sermon was over and the last hymn had been sung. People milled around, shaking hands, smiling and talking. Jack stood at the end of the pew, blocking her exit, while everyone in the church, it seemed, came over to greet him. Aunt Jo and Evelyn turned around and went out the other end of the pew and Daisy turned to do the same, but without looking Jack reached back and caught her arm. “Hold on a minute,” he said, then returned to shaking hands. The men wanted to talk about the police force and feel macho by association; the women merely flirted, even the great-grandmothers. Jack just had that kind of effect on women. Daisy had used to think she was immune, but learned that feeling superior set you up for a big fall.
When the crowd had finally cleared out some and they could make their way out of the pew, Jack stepped aside and let Daisy exit in front of him, his hand going to her waist. Her heart jumped at his touch. He was really getting into the “we’re a couple” act for everyone else’s benefit, but his main objective was to get naked with her; forget the couple angle. He didn’t want to get married and have children—come to think of it, he’d already been married, so he might already have children, too.
There was only one way to find out. She leaned forward and whispered, “Do you have any children?”
He gave her an appalled look. “Hell, no!” Then he remembered where he was and muttered, “Let’s get out of here.”
That was easier said than done. Reverend Bridges was still at the door, shaking hands and chatting with everyone as they left, and it seemed he had a lot to talk to Jack about. None of it seemed very important to Daisy as she patiently waited her turn, but the reverend was a man just like all the others, and he wanted to talk to the police chief. She wondered if it got on Jack’s nerves. No one ever buttonholed her because of her job, and she was just as glad. Did all cops have to put up with this?
But at last her hand was shaken and small talk was made; Reverend Bridges gave her a speaking look, making her wonder if the sermon had been targeted toward her, which, after the talk of this past week, was certainly possible. She’d have to remember to ask her mother.