Crossed Hearts (Matchmaker Trilogy) (12 page)

Moments later, he took his place across from her. She didn’t look up but continued to eat, though she couldn’t have described what she was tasting.

“Not bad,” Garrick conceded. His normally raspy voice was gruffer than normal. He took another bite, chewed and swallowed. “What’s in it?”

“Ginger root, bamboo shoots, scallions, oyster sauce, sherry…”

“Not the kind of stuff that comes in cardboard takeout containers.”

“No.” She took a minute to concentrate on what she was eating and, to her relief, agreed with his assessment. It was good. She had nothing to be ashamed of, and that mattered to her, where Garrick was concerned. It was the first time she’d cooked for him. As a matter of pride, she’d wanted the results to be highly palatable.

They ate in silence. More than once, Leah had to bite her tongue to keep from voicing the questions on her mind. She wanted to know why he’d been so angry, what she’d done to cause it. She wanted to know what he had against music. She wanted to know when he’d eaten Chinese food from takeout containers and why he’d developed such an aversion to it. And she wanted to know where he’d been and what he’d been doing four years ago.

He didn’t offer any further conversation, though, and she didn’t dare start any for fear of setting him off. She liked the Garrick who was quiet and gentle, not the one who brooded darkly, or worse, growled at her.

She had no way of knowing that, at that moment, Garrick was disliking himself. He was disgusted with the way he’d behaved earlier, though his present behavior was only a marginal improvement. But he couldn’t seem to help himself. The more he saw of Leah, the more he liked her, and paradoxically, the more he resented her.

Chinese food. The mere words conjured up images of late nights on the set, where dinner was wolfed out of cartons scattered along an endless table at the rear of the studio. He’d barely known what he was eating. His stomach had inevitably been upset long before, and the best he’d been able to do was to wash whatever it was down with swigs of Scotch.

Chinese food. Another image came to mind, this one of a midnight date with a willowy blonde who’d been good enough to pick up the food on her way over to his place. He wouldn’t have bothered to pick
her
up. He’d known what she’d wanted and he’d delivered—crudely and with little feeling. The next morning, more than a little hung over, he’d retched at the smell of the food that remained in the cartons.

Chinese food. One last image. He’d been alone. No work, no friends. He’d been high on something or other, and he’d gone to the takeout counter and ordered enough for twelve, supposedly to look as though he were having a party. As though he were still important, still a star. He’d gone home, sat in his garish living room, stared at the leather sofas and the huge bags of food and had bawled like a baby.

“Garrick?”

Leah’s voice brought him back. His head shot up just as she passed an envelope across the table. Victoria’s letter. He glared at it for a minute before snatching it from her fingers. The legs of his chair scraped against the floor. He crossed the room quickly, slapped the unopened letter onto the top of the dresser, then dropped back into the sofa and resumed his brooding.

Quietly Leah began to clear the table. Her movements were slow, her shoulders slumped in defeat. It wasn’t the meal that caused her discouragement; she knew it had been good and that for a time Garrick had enjoyed what he’d eaten. She couldn’t even take offense at his brusque departure, because she knew he was hurting. She’d seen his eyes grow distant, seen the pain they’d held. Oh, yes, she knew he was hurting, but she didn’t know what to do about it, and that was the cause of her distress. She wanted to reach out, but she was afraid. She felt totally impotent.

When there was nothing left to do in the kitchen, she picked up a book—one of her own—and as unobtrusively as possible slid into her corner of the sofa. She couldn’t read, though. She was too aware of Garrick.

An hour passed. He looked at her. “You said there were clothes in the bags I brought.”

She glanced down at her jeans, then her moccasins.

“Besides those,” he muttered.

“There are others.” She knew he was complaining because she’d left on his sweater. She closed her fingers around a handful of the wool. “I’ll wash this and your long johns in the morning.”

He grunted and looked away. Another period of silence passed. He moved only to feed the fire. She moved only to turn an unread page.

Then his rough voice jagged into her again. “I can’t believe you sent me for books and tapes. You’ll need more than one change of clothes.”

“There were two in the duffel.”

“That’s not enough if you’re stuck here a while.”

“You have a washer. I’ll do fine. Besides, I have boots in the duffel. I can always go back to the car—”

“
Boots?
Why in the hell didn’t you put them on the other night?”

She drew her elbows in tighter. Strangely, this kind of criticism had been less hurtful coming from Richard. “I didn’t think the mud would be so bad.”

“You didn’t think period. Your car’s stuck in pretty good. That took some doing.”

“I’m not an expert—with cars
or
mud,” she argued, but she was shaking inside. She had no idea why he was harping at her this way. “I was only trying to get out—”

“By grinding the tires in deeper?”

“I was trying my best!”

Again he grunted. Again he looked away. Tension made the air nearly as heavy as her heart.

“You didn’t even lock the damn car!” he roared a short time later. “With your purse lying there, and all your supposed worldly possessions, you left the thing open!”

“I was too upset to think about that.”

“And you’re supposed to be a New Yorker?”

She slammed her book shut. “I’ve never
had
a car before. What is the
problem,
Garrick? You said yourself that no one moves in this kind of weather. Even if someone could, who in his right mind would be going to a burned out cabin? My things were safe, and if they weren’t, they’re only
things.
”

He snorted. “You’d probably
give
the rest away, now that you’ve got your precious books and your tapes and your wok—”

“Damn it, Garrick!” she cried, sliding forward on the sofa. “Why are you doing this to me? I don’t tell you how to live, do I? If my books mean more to me than clothes, that’s
my
choice.” Tears sparkled on her lids but she refused to let them fall. “I may not be like other women in that sense, but it’s the way I am. Will it really hurt you if I alternate between two outfits? If I’m clean and I don’t smell, why should you be concerned? Am I that awful to look at that I need all kinds of fancy things to make my presence bearable?”

She was on her feet, looking at him with hurt-filled eyes. “You don’t want me here. I know that, and because of it, I don’t want to be here, either. I never asked to be marooned with you. If I’d known what Victoria was planning, I’d never have left New York!” She was breathing hard, trying to control her temper, but without success. “I’m as independent as you are, and I prize that independence. I’ve earned it. Do you think it’s easy for me to be stuck in an isolated cabin with a sharp-tongued, self-indulgent recluse? Well, it isn’t! I took enough abuse from my husband. I don’t have to take it from you!”

She started to move away, but turned back as quickly. “And since we’ve taken off the gloves, let me tell you something else. You have the manners of a
boor!
I didn’t have to cook dinner tonight. You’ve made it clear that you’re more than happy doing it. But I wanted to do something for
you,
for a change. I wanted to please you. I wanted to show you that I’m not a wimpy female who needs to be waited on. And what did I get for it? Out-and-out rudeness. You took your sweet time deciding whether you’d privilege me with your company at the table. Then after you shoveled food in your mouth, you stormed off as though I’d committed some unpardonable sin. What did I
do?
Can’t you at least tell me that? Or is it beyond your capability to share your thoughts once in a while?”

Through her entire tirade, he didn’t move a muscle. Throwing her hands up in a gesture of futility, she turned away. Yanking a nightshirt from the duffel she’d stowed under the bed, she fled to the bathroom. A minute later she was out again, throwing her clothes down on top of the duffel, plopping down on the edge of the bed.

Her breath was ragged and her fingers dug into the quilt with fearsome strength. She was angry. She was hurt. But mostly she was dismayed, because she’d taken both her anger and her hurt out on Garrick. It wasn’t like her to do that to anyone. She was normally the most composed of women. Yet she’d disintegrated before Garrick. Garrick. After last night.

She didn’t see or hear him until he was standing directly before her. Her eyes focused on his legs. She couldn’t look up. She didn’t know what to say.

Very slowly, he lowered himself to his haunches. She bowed her head even more, but he raised it with a finger beneath her chin. A gentle finger. Her gaze crept upward.

His eyes held the words of apology that his lips wouldn’t form, and that gentle finger became five, touching her cheek with soulful hesitance. Callused fingertips moved falteringly, exploring her cheek, her cheekbone, the straight slope of her nose, her lips.

Her breath caught in her throat, because all the while he was touching her, his eyes were speaking, and the words were so sad and humble and heartfelt that she wanted to cry.

He leaned forward, then hesitated.

She touched her fingertips to the thick brush of his beard in encouragement.

This time when he leaned forward he didn’t falter, and the words he spoke so silently were the most meaningful of all.

5

G
ARRICK KISSED HER
. It was the first time their lips had touched, and it wasn’t so much the touching itself as its manner that shook Leah to the core. His mouth was artful, capturing hers with a gentleness that spoke of caring, a sweetness that spoke of a deep inner need. He brushed his lips back and forth across her softening flesh, then drew back to look at her again.

His eyes caressed each of her features. Setting her glasses aside, he kissed her eyes, the bridge of her nose, her cheekbone, her temple. By the time he returned to her mouth, her lips were parted. She tipped her head to perfect the fit, welcoming him with rapidly flaring desire.

His enthusiasm matched hers. Oh, he’d fought it. All day and all evening he’d been telling himself that he didn’t want this or need it, that it would cause more trouble than it was worth. He’d been telling himself that he had the self-control to resist any and all urgings of the flesh. But then Leah had blown up. She’d given him a piece of her mind, and she’d been right in what she’d said. He’d seen and felt her hurt, and he’d known that urgings of the flesh were but a small part of the attraction he felt for her.

He couldn’t fight it any longer, because just as his new life was built on control, it was built on honesty. What he felt for Leah, what he needed from her and with her was too raw, too beautiful to be sullied by ugly behavior or lack of communication. He’d talk. He’d tell her about himself. For now, though, he needed to speak with his body.

Calling on everything he’d ever learned about pleasing a woman, he set to pleasing Leah. His mouth was never still, never rough or forceful, demanding only in the most subtle of ways. He stroked her lips, loved them with his own and with his tongue, worshiped the small teeth that lay behind, then the deeper, warmer, moister recesses that beckoned.

There was nothing calculated in what he did. He might have learned and perfected the technique from and on other women, but what he felt as he pleasured Leah came straight from the heart. And he was pleasuring himself, as well, discovering a goodness he’d never known, realizing yet again that what he’d once thought of as purely physical was emotionally uplifting with Leah. In that sense, he was experiencing a rebirth. His past took on meaning, for it was the groundwork from which he could love Leah completely.

She felt it. She felt the wealth of feeling behind the mouth that revered hers, the tongue that flowed around and against hers, the hands that sifted through her hair with such tenderness. She felt things new and different, things that arrowed into her heart and made her tremble.

“Garrick?” she breathed when his lips left hers for a minute.

“Shhhhh—”

“I’m sorry for yelling—”

He was cupping her head, his breath whispering over her. “We’ll talk later. I need you too much now.” He kissed her once more, lingeringly, then released her to whip his sweatshirt over his head.

Her hands were on him even before the sweatshirt hit the floor. Palms open, fingers splayed, she ran her hands over his chest, covering every inch in greedy possession. He was warm and firm. A fine mat of hair, its tawny hue made golden by the residual light of the fire, wove a manly pattern over his flesh. She explored the broader patch above his breasts and traced its narrowing to his waist, then dragged her hands upward again until they spanned dual swells of muscle and small, tight nipples rasped against her palms.

The breath he expelled was a shuddering one. He had his eyes closed and his head thrown back. His long fingers closed around her wrists, not to stop her voyage but simply because he needed to hold her, to know that he wasn’t imagining her touch. His insides were hot; shafts of fire were shooting toward his loins, and a sheen of perspiration had broken out on his skin, adding to the sensual slide of her hands.

When she rounded his shoulders and began to stroke his back in those same, broad sweeps of discovery, he shakily released the buttons of her nightshirt and pushed the soft fabric down her arms. For a minute he could do nothing but look; the perfection before him all but stopped his breathing. Her breasts were round and full, their tips gilded by the firelight. He touched one. Her nipple was already hard, but grew even more so. Sucking in a breath at the sweet pain, Leah closed her fingers on the smooth flesh at his sides and clung for dear life.