Banish Misfortune (34 page)

What the hell
was he going to do? She lay there so peacefully, curled up in the hay, with her long, delicate legs like a newborn colt's. Even now he wanted to roll her on her back in the scratchy hay and make love to her all over again.

He was in love with her. He had finally stopped fighting it. At the age of thirty-six he ought to have learned to stop butting his head against a brick wall. He loved and wanted her, not for a one-night stand or a two-year affair. He wanted her for life. They belonged together; he could no longer ignore that simple, essential fact. It only remained for him to convince her.

And she was going to take some convincing. He could still see the wariness, the shadow of distrust in her blue, blue eyes as she looked up at him. But he could also see the vulnerable mouth, feel the longing she tried to disguise, the same longing he felt and had fought against in the year he'd known her.

Most of that year had been spent apart. When it came right down to it, what did they have in common? Apart from Matthew, that is.

And a love of children. A feeling for the old Vermont house. Their struggle to survive shattered childhoods. A fear of loving and being loved. Their love for Elyssa. Amused appreciation for the Slaughterer. Not to mention their incredible sexual bond. Hell, she probably even liked basketball.

He'd have to move slowly and carefully, so as not to startle her. She could learn to trust him, learn to open up to him. He had to be patient with her.

Because she was more than worth it. Somehow with her awkward intensity she moved him more than any woman had ever had. Moved his body, his mind, his soul. And when he'd least expected it he'd entrusted it all to her, along with his love. He was going to have to earn hers in return.

And in the meantime he was going to have to be very careful. He was going to have to suffer the torments of the damned and watch her as she slept that innocent, sated sleep that she so badly needed. And move very, very slowly.

With a sigh he leaned back against the hay. It was scratchier than she'd told him—it felt like a hair shirt on his bare back, but he deliberately refrained from rummaging around for his shirt. Right now he needed all the physical discomfort he could find to keep his mind off the sleeping woman next to him. Pushing deeper into the hay, he closed his eyes.

The Slaughterer, vol. 99 untitled

Matt Decker surveyed the carnage around him. He should have known better; women were nothing but trouble. He'd lived long and hard, he should have known by now that the only thing you can trust is your buddy and your gun. He gave a fond pat to his snub-nosed 45mm enforcer. It was even prettier than that damned interfering female, and it did what it was told to do. When could you say that about a woman ?

But Ilse was different. She could handle a flamethrower with the best of them, put a bullet neatly between a terrorist's eyes at twenty paces, and her strong, athletic body made him sweat just thinking about it. Running a hand through his silky black hair, he thought back to the afternoon, their bodies mingling, twisting, turning in the Sal-vadoran sunlight. He could almost taste the sweet-salty perfume of her flesh...

"Damnation
!" Jessica pulled the paper out of the typewriter, slashed through the line about his silky black hair and glared at the offending manuscript. If she kept up like this, she'd have to do first drafts, and that would cripple her efficiency. Even now Matthew was sleeping less and less during the days, and there were too many other things to do, besides.

Of course, it was a wonder she could write at all, given the circumstances. When she'd awakened in the barn, she'd been curled up in a fetal ball, with Springer sitting there in his faded jeans, watching her out of fathomless eyes. And the panic she'd managed to squash down earlier washed over her.

She knew he recognized it as the sleepy smile that lit his face faded away beneath the look in his eyes. He managed a tight, tentative smile, watching her with that steady, unreadable regard, and she'd dressed hurriedly in the dress he'd handed her.

Say something, damn it,
she'd begged silently.
Smile at me, kiss me, tell me anything. Tell me there's nothing to be frightened of, tell me you won't leave me like all the others have.
But he'd said nothing, that distant, preoccupied expression on his face. And together they'd walked back through the rain-spangled fields, not touching, each lost in his own thoughts.

He was sitting across the room from her now, ostensibly reading. But she was acutely aware each time he lifted his head to watch her, and he did it almost constantly. She had no idea what was going through his mind—she would have given ten years of her life and her share of Matt Decker's substantial royalties to know. But she couldn't bring herself to ask him. Those moments of communion and giving in the old barn were a mistake, and she knew that far too well. And Jessica tried very hard not to repeat her mistakes.

Sighing, she inserted another sheet of paper into the

Selectric. The lights had been on for an hour, though they flickered every now and then as if not quite sure they were going to stay. It was past nine, Marianne had brought Matthew back hours ago, and he was already settled for the night. The lights could go out again with impunity, as long as she was safely settled for the night in her bedroom, away from Springer's steady gaze.

And that was another problem. Which bedroom? Springer had let her have her old one, but she had no idea whether he'd continue to be so generous. And while it certainly didn't seem as if he'd want to share a bed with her, he might feel it incumbent on his masculine ego to make the attempt. The front room had a double bed, the one under the eaves was only a single iron bed with a sagging mattress.

There was no way she could tactfully bring up the subject. Except to say that she really needed her sleep. Or she could come right out and ask if she could have the small bedroom to herself. It would make it clear that she was wanting and expecting to sleep alone, and at least the uncertainty would be cleared up.

The lights flickered and dimmed again, brightened, then faded to a distant glow. "Damn," she said lightly, pushing away from the table. Springer hadn't moved, the darkness seeming to have little effect on the book he wasn't reading. "I give up."

Springer looked up politely, seemingly unmoved by the darkness. "Does this happen often?"

"Often enough. There's no way to tell how long it'll be off—it could be minutes or hours." She cleared her throat. "I think I'll go on up to bed."

He didn't move, but she could feel his eyes on her, even through the darkness. Her palms were damp with sudden nerves, but she managed to keep her voice light. "Where would you like to sleep?" she asked brightly, then realized with growing horror, how that sounded. "I mean, you can have the small bedroom if you like. I'm perfectly comfortable in the front bedroom. Or if you'd rather have the front room, I can take the room under the eaves. It doesn't make any difference to me." She was babbling and she knew it.

He rose then, tossing the book to one side and crossing the room. She stood there unflinching in the face of his steady advance, wishing she could run and hide. But she was through running.

He put his strong, warm hands on her shoulders, the fingers kneading the tight flesh. "We'll sleep wherever you want, Jessie," he said gently. "But we'll sleep together. We've already spent too many nights apart."

"Springer, I don't think..." she began, trying to pull away, but his hands tightened imperceptibly, and in truth, she didn't want to leave him.

"Good," he said, his voice low and approving. "Don't think. If you think too much you'll just get scared all over again. Just feel." And his head dipped down, his mouth caught hers in a deep, searing kiss. "Come to bed with me, Jessie."

It would have taken a stronger woman than she was to resist such a devastating assault. She opened her mouth beneath his kiss, returning it, and when he moved away she nodded, afraid to trust her voice. And his hands tightened on her shoulder in what might almost have been relief, before leading her up the stairs to the narrow bed under the eaves.

It was a restless night
, her third night without Andrew. That was how Marianne figured it—she didn't count her afternoon among the raspberries two days ago. It was the nights that were the hardest anyway. It was amazing how fast she could come to need a man in her bed. And not just any man. She needed Andrew, and she hated both herself and him for having to admit it.

But admit it she did. She always tried to be honest with herself, and whether she liked it or not, Andrew had grown to be immeasurably important to her and her family. Eric and Shannon constantly barraged her with questions about him: when was he coming back, would he live with them, would he teach Eric to play the guitar? And Marianne had started out noncommittal, traveled to snappish, and finally ended up resigned. He managed, in an indecently short time, to become essential to her children as well as to herself, and she didn't know what she was going to do about it.

It was different from the time that Tom left her. Despite her rage and hurt, the pain had lessened as the days went on. With Andrew, each night grew harder, until she was sitting there, staring at the almost full moon, trying to control the urge to howl out her pain like a wild dog.

The damned electricity didn't help. She had planned to stay up late, watching late movies and eating whatever wasn't nailed down. Now she couldn't even read. Not that she had anything in the house but those damned romances, she thought irritably. Not what she needed when she was trying to break herself of her need for Andrew Cameron.

And Jessica didn't help, either. Marianne had taken one look at her flushed, slightly dazed face and knew that her half-formed plan had worked. Somehow she and Springer had managed to overcome their differences long enough to give her whisker burns on her neck, and if everything wasn't hearts and flowers they were at least moving in the right direction. And Marianne had had to stifle the pang of envy that had washed over her. Why didn't she have a man like Springer MacDowell?

Except that she did. Granted, he was a hell of a lot shorter—and younger, for that matter. He was also domineering, bad-tempered, cheap and very, very sweet. Worst of all, he had an unfortunate tendency to take no for an answer.

And most amazing of all, Matthew didn't help. Marianne had been convinced that two children were enough for any sensible human being; toward the end of her marriage she had been considering having her tubes tied because of her certainty. But Andrew's careless words, outrageous as they had been, had somehow managed to penetrate her subconscious, so that she had spent the whole day playing with Matthew and suddenly, inexplicably, wanting another baby of her own. One with curly brown hair and green eyes and a stubborn soul.

With a quiet moan of despair she pulled herself away from the window. How in hell had she suddenly become so indecisive? She had always prided herself on knowing what she wanted. What in heaven's name had made her so dithery all of a sudden?

But she knew the answer to that. Andrew Cameron had made her into a helpless, lovesick fool, and there was no cure for it but time. And even that didn't seem like a sure thing.

"Mama?" A small, plaintive voice accompanied the shuffle of pajama-clad feet, and Shannon's rumpled blond head appeared at the door. "The lights are off."

"I know, sweetheart," Marianne said, sighing. "You remember, that happens sometimes. Go back to sleep, and tomorrow it will be all better."

"Couldn't Andrew fix it?" Eric had appeared behind his sister, a studious expression on his freckled face that was so like his mother's.

"I don't think so, darling."

"I bet he could. Why don't you go ask him? I bet he'd come over and try. I betcha," Eric said earnestly, and for a moment Marianne was tempted.

But she resisted the temptation. "The power's off all over the island, Eric. It's the power company, and Andrew can't do anything about that. It's probably even off at his place. We'll just have to sleep through it." A brilliant thought struck her. "We could all snuggle in my bed, like we do when it's real cold." And she wouldn't have to survive another empty night.

Eric shook his head solemnly. "I'm too old for that," he said with great dignity. "That's for when we're sick."

"I could always make an exception."

Eric shook his head determinedly. "I think Andrew should sleep in your bed with you. Like he did before."

Marianne didn't even flinch. "Before what?"

"Before you told him to go away," he said bluntly. "You are going to tell him you didn't mean it, aren't you?"

"I don't know. What makes you think I didn't mean it?"

Eric shook his head at the folly of adults, and Marianne had to resist the urge to hug him. He'd gotten so very wise all of a sudden. And Shannon was growing up. They weren't her babies anymore. "You think about it, Ma," he said gently. "G'night." Taking his sister's hand, he headed back down the darkened hallway.

When it got to the time when her eight-year-old could outthink her, Marianne thought dismally, she was in deep trouble. And maybe the honesty and principles that she'd prided herself on were nothing more than stupidity and pigheadedness. And why was she sitting alone in a candlelit bedroom when she wanted to cry from wanting Andrew?