Delilah's Weakness (20 page)

His own hand raked down over her silk–and–lace camisole and slipped under it to whisper softly over the skin of her back.

"You lied to me too," he whispered into the moist heat of her mouth, pulling away a little.

She moved urgently, searching with her lips and tongue for more of the hot brandy sweetness of his mouth, and murmured an inarticulate denial.

"Oh, yes you did." His hands explored her back from nape to waist, then moved across her ribs to the undersides of her breasts. "You
are
just as soft all over."

She held her breath as his thumbs traced the curve of her breasts and lightly circled the areolas. When the nipples hardened under his feathering strokes her eyelids drifted down and her lips softened into a smile. "I never said I wasn’t," she whispered. "Just that I didn’t use sheep’s wool."

Luke chuckled and settled her more comfortably, supporting her body with one arm so that his other hand was free to roam at will. Delilah released her breath in a soft, uneven sigh and, lifting lids grown heavy with desire, gazed up into his face, his beautiful face. But what she saw wasn’t perfect features and an angel’s smile, or eyes that could melt glaciers. She saw a face with flaws. Stubble shadow on jaws and chin, tension creases around the mouth, smudges of purple under the eyes. A very human face. A beloved face.
Luke’s face.

She traced its lines and planes with her fingers the way a blind person "sees," as if with her sense of touch she could commit his face forever to her memory. As if she could imprint it, not just on her mind’s eye, but on her soul’s as well.

She saw his eyes close and felt a tremor run deep through his body. When her fingers touched his lips they parted, and grew vulnerable. Against her fingertips he whispered, "‘Lilah, I need you." Then his lips hardened, and with a quick, almost desperate movement he caught her fingers and drew them into his mouth.

Her laughter was a liquid sound more like a sob. In a husky whisper she said, "Make love to me, Luke," and in an instinctive gesture as old as womankind, she drew his head down to her breasts.

He easily slid the straps of her camisole over her shoulders. Her breast was a small, vibrant weight in his hand, its tip sweet and tender in his mouth. Moisture lay like gold dust on her skin. Her body arched and trembled beneath his hand as it traveled downward over her ribs and the taut hollow of her belly, over her jeans, to her drawn–up thighs. Her belly’s concavity and the unyielding quality of denim provided him with a narrow access to her body’s secrets. When he began to explore them with gentle fingers she moved restlessly against his hand and moaned.

"Easy, love," he whispered. But he was the one who needed the advice. Her body was heated and swelling with passion, but the tension was in him. Her breath was coming in quickening gasps, but the deep–down inner trembling was his.

I need you
. Words he’d never spoken before. He’d said, "I want you" many times. But never "I need you."

To him, women’s bodies were like fine and complex instruments. He understood and respected them, and had always prided himself on playing them with sensitivity as well as skill. But this, this was neither body nor instrument. This was
Delilah.
And he was discovering, for the first time in his life, the difference between making love to a woman’s body and loving a woman. All his acquired knowledge and virtuosity were worthless. Now he was functioning on instinct, and passion, and emotion, and for the life of him he couldn’t seem to stop the trembling.

They stripped off the rest of their clothes. Her flesh was hot and fragrant, and tasted so sweet. He’d never felt such hunger, such a need to possess. She was his. just his, and he wanted—needed—to immerse himself completely in her, to bind her to him, body and soul.

His lips touched her belly and felt it quiver. His hands caressed her inner thighs and parted them, overcoming her slight resistance with gentle, loving pressure. His first touch was light—a kiss, tender and sweet. And then with slow, liquid stroking that deepened and deepened, he pleasured her, until he heard her cries and felt her body’s inner throbbing in the depths of his own soul.

He held her and rocked her, murmuring words of comfort and praise. After a while he began slowly to arouse her again, and when he entered her he whispered with compelling urgency, "‘Lilah, sweetheart, open your eyes. Look at me."

And he held her eyes with his until for both of them the world dissolved into rainbow shimmers and sunbeams.

** ** **

About a week later Delilah stood at the door to her bathroom, staring at the transformed room. Luke had redone it. He had insulated it, put up drywall, tiled the floor, and put a radiant heater in the ceiling. And then he had installed a Victorian bathtub, claw feet and all.

It was the bathtub that had told her how deeply and completely in love with Luke she really was, and how much she had already changed because of him.

She cried when she saw it.

"Do you know, that’s the first time I’ve ever seen you cry over something besides your sheep?" Luke said as he held her.

"How did you know?" she asked him brokenly, lifting wondering eyes to his face.

"That you’d love a tub like that? Are you kidding? My little closet romantic?" He laughed and lifted her sweat shirt to fondle and caress her skin through a layer of silk and lace. "‘Lilah, anybody who wears what you wear and is as softhearted as you are has got to be a romantic at heart. I can hardly wait to see you in that tub, up to your beautiful chin in bubbles."

Remembering, Delilah shook her head and walked over to the table and sat down. Luke was in town, running an errand, and she was amazed at how lonely she felt. Lambing was almost over. What would she do when he left?

The sound of a car pulling up startled her, and she peered out the window to see Mara Jane climbing out of it.

Delilah met her at the door. "Mara Jane! What brings you up here?"

Mara Jane had a peculiar look on her face. "It’s Luke," she said. "He, um… Roy just arrested him."

"L
uke, you idiot,"
Delilah said softly, shaking her head and swallowing a persistent lump.

"
Ouch
—don’t scold." He winced, and managed a lopsided grin. He was sitting on the corner of a cluttered desk in the small police station, his flight jacket across one knee and white gauze wrapped around his right hand.

Delilah took one step toward him. "You hurt your hand."

"Yeah." He lifted it slightly and shrugged. "I guess I cut it on old Amos’s tooth. Should have aimed at a softer target."

"Luke, I can’t believe you hit Amos Chappel! I thought you said that wasn’t your style."

His mouth hardened, and he looked away briefly. "Yeah, well, sometimes things happen to change your mind."

"What did he do, Luke?"

"Wasn’t so much what he did," he mumbled, still not looking at her, "as what he said."

"My goodness, what
did
he say?" Delilah whispered, moving a step closer. Then she breathed a quick "Never mind!" when she saw the black anger in Luke’s eyes.

"How bad is your hand?" she ventured, touching it gingerly with her fingers.

Luke gave a snort. "Not too bad." He tried another grin, and was more successful. "Won’t need your needlework."

"You’ve bled all over your jacket again. Better let me take it and wash it out."

Luke swore and stood up, pulling her into his arms with restrained violence. After one startled gasp she relaxed against him, putting her arms around his waist and rubbing her face, kitten–like, in the open V of his shirt.

"Lord, I’m sorry," he said roughly into her hair. "Not that I hit him—the bastard deserved it—but I hate to put you through all this. Leaving you alone. ‘Lilah, I think they’re going to keep me here tonight. Roy’s trying to get Amos to drop the charges, but—"

She drew back a little and looked up at him. "Hey, I’m used to being alone, remember?" Which may have been true once, but she had a feeling wasn’t anymore. "Don’t worry about me," she said staunchly, trying to reassure herself as much as him.

His eyes burned into hers. "I do. Can’t help it."

"Oh, for Pete’s sake. I got along without you for two whole years, and after you go I’ll—Dammit, I’ll get along without you again. The lambing’s almost finished anyway. I won’t need you any—" Her voice broke.

"Is that all you need me for? The lambing?" His voice was strained and tight. His face seemed dark, and etched with lines she’d never noticed before. Could this be the Luke MacGregor, the carefree charmer, who’d stepped out of a ruined airplane and into her arms, bloodied but unbowed? "Dammit, ‘Lilah," he said, the hoarseness and passion in his voice slipping like a claymore through her defenses. "Forget about your damn sheep—your hired hand. What about me? What about
this?"

His mouth swooped down and captured hers. His hands held her head, fingers tunneling through her hair, rasping against her scalp. His mouth covered hers, and his tongue plunged deep and almost with desperation.

A soft "ahem" interrupted them.

"Roy," Luke said thickly, tucking Delilah’s head protectively under his chin. He held her tightly, stroking her hair, shielding her from embarrassment. "Any luck?"

"‘Fraid not." Roy’s tone was dry. "He’s still mad as hell. And who can blame him? I’ve seen prettier smiles on a jack–o–lantern. Nope––" he sighed with weariness and exasperation "––you’re going to have to stay here tonight, buddy. Can’t get your bail set till morning. Sorry."

"Yeah, yeah." Luke took Delilah’s arms and put her gently from him. "See she gets home," he said, directing a black glare at Roy.

"I will," Mara Jane said, appearing beside Roy.

"Come on, Di," Roy said gently. "Mara’ll take you home. Nothing you can do here till morning."

Delilah nodded, but didn’t move, not quite able to tear herself away from the warmth and security of Luke’s body.

"‘Lilah…" His voice was raspy. "I’ll be fine."

Again she nodded, swallowing hard. "I’ll take your jacket," she finally managed to say. "Get the stains out."

He nodded and handed it to her, letting his fingers linger on the inner bend of her elbow.

At least, Delilah thought as she followed Mara Jane into the cold desert nighttime, now I know what it’s going to be like when he leaves.
Hell. Pure hell.

She had the jacket completely submerged in a sinkful of cold water before she noticed the letter in the inside pocket.

"Damn!" She swore aloud, snatching it out of the water, but not before it was well and thoroughly soaked. The ink hadn’t run—it seemed to be waterproof—but she knew if she didn’t spread the letter out to dry it would probably be ruined anyway. Overcoming an innate distaste for such an invasion of privacy, she carefully pulled the single sheet from its envelope and laid it face down on a dish towel, blotted it with another towel, and left it on the kitchen table to dry. With Luke’s jacket soaking in the sink, she went out to check on the only three ewes left to lamb.

The night had never seemed so long, or so lonely. When Delilah went to the barn at one in the morning she found a two–year–old ewe in labor, and although she knew it was apt to be awhile before anything happened, she decided to wait. She hadn’t been sleeping very well anyway. The vigil would have been a time of closeness and conversation if Luke had been there. Without him it was tedious and lonely. Last year she hadn’t minded the boredom and the solitude.

But at least she had light now, thanks to Luke. She could pass the time reading the old newspapers she kept handy for wiping and drying the newborn lambs. (Newsprint was clean, absorbent, disposable, and, best of all, free.) Mara Jane had brought her a new batch only a few days ago—the Los Angeles Times, as well as local papers from both Bishop and Independence—so there was plenty to keep her occupied, if not especially interested.

One small item in the
Times’s
metro section did receive her undivided attention. The headline read: "Thermodyne Exec Escapes Injury In Plane Crash."

"Lucas Charles MacGregor," the article began, "president of Thermodyne, Inc., walked away uninjured after crashing his small private plane in a high Sierra meadow, a company spokesman announced Wednesday."

"Meadow, my foot." Delilah muttered. "And he was
so
injured. I should know." She wondered just where the "company spokesman" had gotten his information. She began looking systematically through the local papers to see if they had anything more accurate to report.

She almost missed it. She was scanning headlines, keyed to the words plane, crash, and Thermodyne. She did a kind of delayed double take when she saw the headline, "Geothermal Hearing Set for April." And when she did, the name Andrew Beaumont jumped out at her with the insistence of neon. She read the entire article through twice and still couldn’t understand why she felt cold all over, and especially down deep inside.

All the time she was working with the two–year–old ewe, delivering a healthy set of twins, supervising their first attempts at nursing, she kept trying to make her mind focus on the article and what it meant. But her mind was numb. She couldn’t make sense of anything. So Luke’s company was under a federal restraining order—something to do with environmental impact and increased seismic activity in the Mammoth Lakes area.

Big deal. So what?

So her father was the federal judge who had issued the restraining order that had shut down Luke’s company. Small world. Extraordinary coincidence. Things happen like that all the time. It didn’t have anything to do with her. She hadn’t even seen her father in almost three years. Luke hadn’t crashed his plane in her pasture on purpose, for goodness’ sake!

Had he?

But then, why did she still feel so cold?

Back in the house, she took off her coat and gloves and cap, but didn’t go back to bed. There wasn’t any point in it; she knew she wasn’t going to do any more sleeping. Instead she paced, and pondered, pausing every so often to glance at the letter tying face down on a towel on the kitchen table.