Read MM03 - Saturday Mornings for Free Online Page A

she had been coming, but she wasn't. It didn't take him long to figure out why. She expected him to make his move.
    He whistled a tune under his breath and thought about his move. He wanted to kiss her. That much was definite. He'd been wanting to ever since he noticed her lush lips.
    He surprised himself by discovering he wanted more, too. Holding her close had been a powerful aphrodisiac. Move with caution, he warned himself. She's unschooled in the ways of courtship and love.
    He parked his truck in the shadow of an old oak tree and walked her to her door, one hand resting lightly on the small of her back. He felt a tremor run through her when they mounted the steps. It heightened his anticipation. He could almost feel her lips under his, hesitant and shy at first, then open and hungry as he stoked the fires he knew were there.
    At the front door, he turned her lightly in his arms. The porch light caught the brightness in her red-brown hair and the fear in her eyes.
    He'd expected nervousness, but not fear. It took him aback.
    “Well,” she said. “Thank you for a lovely evening.”
    She bit her trembling lower lip, and he knew he couldn't do it, at least not the way he had planned.
    “Thank you, Margaret Leigh.”
    He retreated a step feeling noble and self-sacrificing as he bent over her hand. Brushing his lips across her palm, he caught the scent of her skin. It was an old-fashioned fragrance, a mixture of roses and the lilacs he remembered growing around the gazebo at his grandmother's house. He lingered a while longer, then straightened and released her.
    “It was my pleasure to have the prettiest girl at the Saturday-night dance.”
    “You're teasing.”
    “No. I'm bragging.” He gave a crooked grin and a smart salute. “We’ll dance again. Good night, pretty one.”
    He left her porch and went down her sidewalk, whistling. He was inordinately proud of himself. He felt like a missionary on an errand of mercy. Or a scientist working on a secret formula. Or Pygmalion bringing a statue to life.
    But Margaret Leigh was no stone statue. She was flesh and blood and roses and lilacs. She was porcelain skin and shy glances. She was a project. His project.
    He climbed into his truck and headed home to his dogs.
    o0o
    Margaret Leigh let herself quietly inside and leaned against the door. Outside she could hear the engine sputtering and backfiring. She put her hand over her heart. She knew just how that old engine felt. She was sputtering and backfiring herself. She had been scared, and he'd known it.
    He must think she was the silliest woman who ever drew breath. Lord, what a mess. She closed her eyes. But that didn't help a bit. She still saw Andrew, big and handsome and virile, and looking at her as if he planned to eat her for breakfast. He probably had all the women he wanted for breakfast. Why in the devil did she think he wanted to add her to his diet?
    Experience. There had been one time back in college when she'd decided to experiment, to defy her upbringing, to ignore all Aunt Bertha's dire warnings and find out for herself. It had been Halloween, an evening as crisp and clear as polished red apples. Her date had been a blind date arranged by Barb, the dorm's most popular girl.
    It hadn't taken him long to maneuver her away from the party and into his car. He'd mentioned the bluff, and she'd nodded, knowing what was coming next, terrified but anxious to get it over with.
    He had been all hands, clumsy and sweaty and grasping. And in the end she had fought, using her elbows and her knees and her fingernails. Fortunately for both of them, her date had finally been too wise to press the matter. He'd brought her home with her stockings torn and her virtue intact.
    She'd never tried to experiment again. Not that she had had the time. Her father, a life-long diabetic, had become an invalid her last year of graduate school. She'd cared for him until his death two years before, staying in the old family home, working