Delilah's Weakness (19 page)

Something was pricking him inside his jacket. Experiencing a sensation in his midsection similar to what happens when the elevator you’re riding in abruptly drops thirty floors, he reached to the inside pocket to finger Pete’s letter. It was pricking, all right—pricking his conscience. He hadn’t opened it yet, but he knew what it said.
Mac, where are you, buddy? Why haven’t you called? How are you making out with the Beaumont chick, man? We’re running out of time.

But it had been a long time since Luke had thought of her as Judge Beaumont’s daughter. Now she was just ‘Lilah, and time had a new meaning.

She halted a few feet away and gave him a fierce, smoky look. "You look terrible," she said finally, sounding surprised.

He snorted ruefully and raked his fingers through his hair. "Things are lookin’ up. Thank heavens I’m not ‘beautiful’ anymore!" After long, silent moments, he added very softly, "I’m sorry, but I can’t say the same for you." He spread his hands and lifted his shoulders. "You look incredible."

She colored, looked away across the orchard, then down at the buckets in her hands.

"‘Lilah," Luke said, his voice tense and husky. "If I move away from this wall it’ll fall down. So for Pete’s sake, come here."

He saw her throat move. She put the buckets down with a funny, vexed little sigh and walked into his arms. For a while he just held her, resting his cheek on the top of her head. Her hair was silky–warm and smelled of hay and sunshine. She breathed another sigh—a relaxing sigh, this time—and murmured, "I was afraid that––I didn’t want you to think—"

"‘Lilah," he said, hugging her fiercely, "hush. The trouble with you is, you think too much."

"Do I? I guess I must. Mara Jane said I should listen to my feelings, but I didn’t—"

"And talk too much."

Without another word she turned her face into the hollow of his neck and raised herself a little on tiptoe in order to kiss the underside of his jaw.

"Atta girl," he said with gravel in his voice. "You’re getting the idea. But be careful. I’ll scratch you."

She drew back and smiled up at him, laying a hand along his jaw to gauge the stubble. "You really are a wreck," she said with a happy giggle. "I didn’t think it was possible."

"I can never figure out whether you’re complimenting me or insulting me," Luke said plaintively, rubbing his face. "You have kind of a turned–around attitude about physical appearances."

"I think I am getting used to you." She studied him thoughtfully.

"Used to me?"

"Yes. Mara Jane said I would."

"I think I’ve gotta meet this woman."

"You will. But not," she added, horrified, "looking like this. You’ll make a liar out of me."

"What?"

"I’ve already told her you look like one of her heroes. She writes romances, you know."

"Oh, Lord." They were both laughing, Delilah with her forehead pressed to his chest, Luke with his chin on the top of her head. "Oh, ‘Lilah," he said, taking a breath, "how I—"

He stopped, shocked by what he’d almost said. Something he’d never said before in his life. What shocked him the most was how easy it had been—as natural and right as drawing a breath.

** ** **

Delilah knew she was in trouble when she found herself rummaging frantically through her kitchen drawers in search of candles. Not just candles—she had plenty of the stubby, burned–down variety she used during power failures—but tall, new candles, preferably white, still wrapped in cellophane, scented with something exotic and romantic.

She was in despair because the yellow oilcloth was too stark, the brown stoneware dishes too serviceable. And because she had no flowers, not so much as a sprig of sage.

And then she thought:
Soft music and candlelight? Delilah, who are you trying to kid? He’ll die laughing!

It was all too obvious. Even fixing supper was too obvious, for her. Games. It was all a matter of those seventh–grade games she’d hated so much, trying to be something she wasn’t, just to please a man. And yet…

She
did
want to please him. She felt weak and shaky inside at the thought of him. She wanted him to know how she felt. But at the same time she was afraid to, because she wasn’t really sure how he felt.

Oh, Lord, she thought, I don’t know how to play this game!

How did a woman go about telling a man she’d had a change of heart? How did she invite a man into her house—and her bed—without risking making a fool of herself?

In the end, Delilah didn’t use the table at all. She put her brightest and best Navajo rug—a "storm" pattern, with touches of yellow highlighting the traditional red, gray, black, and white—on the floor in front of the sofa. Arranged picnic–style like that, she thought the old crockery didn’t look half bad.

When Luke came in with the milk bucket she was on her knees trying to arrange some sprigs of dried buckwheat and wild oats in a pottery jug. She looked up and thought:
Oh, help.

She couldn’t get up. What now? Her legs felt as fragile and brittle as the dried grasses in her hands. She managed a breathless and wary "Hi," then went on looking at him and rubbing her hands on her thighs. She focused on his eyes, afraid to see the expression on his face. After an endless moment’s silence she waved a hand, then jammed both hands into her back pockets.

"Supper’s almost ready," she said with defensive belligerence. "I hope you’re hungry."

Luke’s gaze swept over the carefully laid rug, the yellow cloth napkins, the dry arrangement in its earthenware jug, the earthenware bowl full of salad, the platter of cold fried chicken, and his mouth crinkled into one of his heart–stopping smiles. "Starved," he said without missing a beat, and carried the buckets to the kitchen sink.

"What smells so good?" he asked casually as he poured milk into the waiting strainer.

Delilah took a deep breath. "Blueberry muffins." Her shoulders hunched protectively around her painfully thumping heart.
If he says one word…

He said two, lifting his eyebrows at her over his shoulder. "No kidding?"

"Well," she hedged, "they’re from a mix."

"‘Lilah," he said, setting the buckets on the floor and straightening, "when you said you’d fix supper tonight I was prepared for oatmeal and peanut butter. Blueberry muffins sound fantastic." His grin was the impish one, gently teasing and as contagious as laughter.

Under the buoyant influence of that grin Delilah felt light enough to rise to her feet, but the soft touch of his fingers on the top of her head forestalled her.

"Stay put, love. I’ll get them. Anything else?"

"Just the milk," she said, then cleared her throat and settled back onto her heels. She watched him wash his hands, transfer hot muffins from the pan to a plate, take the pitcher of milk from the refrigerator, and settle onto the rug as if they ate every meal on the floor. The sight filled her with a fluttery, tremulous kind of wonder.

He’s making it so easy
. After all her worrying, everything he did, he did with grace, without awkward places and bumps.
Doesn’t he ever stumble? Doesn’t he ever feel uncertain?

"Nice rug," he commented. "One of yours?"

"What? Oh." She had to shake herself. She’d been mesmerized by his hands as they selected a muffin, slowly broke it apart, and buttered it. "Yes," she murmured. "Mine." One of his hands, holding half of a still–steaming muffin, was extended toward her mouth. With a catch to her breathing she parted her lips and snapped her gaze to his face. She watched him bite into the other half of the muffin and lick crumbs from his lips, and felt her tongue move in unconscious imitation of his. With a faint sigh she closed her eyes and opened her mouth to accept his offering. She chewed and swallowed, tasting nothing. Her throat had closed up tight. A whole troop of butterflies was holding a private party in her stomach.

His hand came toward her again, and his thumb brushed across her lips. "Crumbs," he explained, and, without taking his fingers from her lips, leaned across to touch her mouth with his. "Seems a pity to waste them."

"Oh," Delilah breathed, and held very still. She waited until he had pulled away a little, then asked, "Why didn’t you do that before?"

"Do what before what?" The backs of his fingers were stroking her throat, making her want to swallow. The wooing resonances in his voice covered a shimmering spectrum of sound. If rainbows made noises, she knew they’d sound like his voice.

"Touch me. Before now. Today. After––I was afraid," she muttered reluctantly, her throat muscles rigid with unexplained tensions, "you didn’t want to."

"Oh, ‘Lilah," he said, smiling. "I didn’t all day because I wanted to…too much."

"Did you?" She struggled briefly with the logic, then sighed. "I don’t think I understand."

"Things happen when I kiss you, did you notice? Like last night. And I didn’t want that to happen today."

"Oh," she murmured, beginning to pull away. "I see."

"No, you don’t." He held her head in his hands, tilting it, forcing her to look up into those lethal, black–fringed eyes. The dissonances in his voice intensified, abrading her nerves, chafing her emotions. "I’ve wanted you all day. I woke up wanting you. Last night we got hit by lightning. Today… Today I want to love you slowly, completely. And there hasn’t been time. So I couldn’t let myself kiss you, because I wasn’t sure I could stop at that. Understand?"

"Yes." She closed her eyes. "And now?"

"Now," Luke replied huskily, "we have time."

"What about dinner? You said you were starving."

"There’re all kinds of hunger," he growled, and brought his mouth to hers.

Things happen when I kiss you, she repeated to herself. Things like heat and pressure and upheaval, deep, deep inside. Things that made her lose all sense of time and direction. Confusing feelings, like pleasure that made her want to cry, and aches that filled her up with joy.

These were the feelings Mara Jane had told her about. And she was right. The feelings were right. But––

"Luke!" she cried out in sudden panic, pulling away.

"What, love?" His voice and eyes were tender, and his fingers were like a whisper on the back of her neck.

"What’s going to happen to us?"

"Don’t you know? Whatever we make happen…" His mouth was a soothing, gentle warmth on her throat, his hands sure and steady on the buttons of her shirt. She moaned and let her head fall back in temporary surrender. His tongue stroked the hollow at the base of her throat as his hands pushed the shirt over her shoulders.

"Do you have any idea," he asked unsteadily, "how sexy it is, knowing, all day long, what you’re wearing under this stuff?"

"No," she moaned, then shook her head and grasped at his wrists. "No. I mean, some things you don’t make happen. They just happen. And it isn’t right to just ignore everything and be carried along—"

"For Pete’s sake, "Lilah," Luke said with a kind of desperation, "what are you arguing about now?"

"I’m not arguing. I’m just…" She closed her eyes.

"What, dammit?"

"Well, what about the girl? The one you’re hiding from—the one who wants to marry you. Remember her?" It cost her a lot to say it, and when she had finished she was trembling. Luke hesitated, then released her hands and sat back against the base of the couch. Delilah pressed her clasped hands to her mouth and waited.

There was a very peculiar expression on Luke’s face. It was the first time she’d ever seen him look unsure of himself. He mumbled, "Uh… I have to explain about that," and raked his fingers through his hair.

Here it comes, thought Delilah. He’s already married.

Luke regarded her warily, then laid his head back and looked exasperatedly at the ceiling. "The girl I’m hiding out from—Glenna. I have a confession to make. She’s… um, my sister."

"What?" She stared at him without comprehension.

He shrugged and looked acutely guilty. "My sister," he repeated, and raised his arms in anticipation of Delilah’s explosion.

She didn’t disappoint him. "Your sister!" she breathed in an absolute fury. "You jerk! You lied. You just plain out–and–out lied." She struck at his chest with her fist, then looked frantically at the supper for a more effective weapon. "And I, like a total fool, believed you. I can’t believe I let you—"

"Whoa." Luke rescued the jug of dried grasses and imprisoned her hands in his. "Don’t break that. It’s too pretty to waste on my head. Besides, you’d just have to sew me up again. Calm down, now. I didn’t lie."

"What the hell would you call it?" Delilah shouted, unable to keep the quaver of rage out of her voice.

By contrast, Luke’s voice was a patient, soothing murmur. "I did not lie. Every single word I said was the truth. Think back. I never said the girl wanted to marry me. I said she wants me to get married. And she does. Boy, does she ever. She’s been after me for years. And now that she’s gotten married herself, she’s imp—"

"That’s a crock, and you know it. You misled me. You deliberately made me think—" She was struggling against his grip on her wrists, trying to vent her anger and other more confusing emotions in a concrete way, but Luke laughed again and effortlessly pulled her across his lap and into his arms. Her breath caught. "You are devious," she whispered, looking up into his face. The anger was draining out of her, though, leaving her flushed and moist.

"And you," he murmured, "are incredibly beautiful. And incredibly sexy. Especially when you’re mad."

"I’m not mad," she said evenly, breathing hard. "And don’t try to change the subject. What else have you lied to me about?"

For a long moment he looked down at her, with a gaze so dark and intense it frightened her. "Nothing," he said with a growl. "Absolutely nothing." And his mouth swooped down to take hers—a fierce possession, a declaration of masculine dominance, a territorial claiming.

For Delilah it
was
a lot like being struck by lightning. A jolt of pure desire stabbed through her, and she arched her body upward, hard into the curve of his. She moaned once, in futile protest and in surrender, and lifted her hand to touch his face.