Hold on Tight (10 page)

“Fine,” he retorted. He swung the car to the left and followed the parking lot as it curved around one end of the school building. Hardly able to concentrate, Dinah hurriedly scanned the dark nooks and crannies. The back of the building was etched in angular shadows from the street lights.

“Stop,” she ordered abruptly. He jammed on the brakes as they passed an L-shaped indentation in the old structure. “What in the world? Those aren’t students!”

They saw a disturbing tableau. Three good-sized young men had cornered a fourth. The three aggressors were surprisingly respectable looking in jeans and jackets; the fourth man, who had his fists raised in a boxer’s defensive pose, wore a Marine uniform. “The Peevy brothers!” Dinah exclaimed. “They run a feed store in Bartley. And they love to fight. Damn their Neanderthal hides.”

Rucker put the car in park and sat staring at the scene for a moment, his chest rising and falling erratically. The Peevys turned around and glowered. One of them gestured with a curt movement of his hand, indicating clearly that the Cadillac should go back where it came from.

Dinah thumped the car seat angrily. “Let’s go. I’ll get Dewey to come break this up.”

Without turning to look at her, his voice deep and stern, Rucker said, “They’ll beat the tar out of that Marine before Dewey gets here.”

He reached for the door handle and Dinah grabbed his arm. “No!”

Rucker turned to look at her then. His expression was set, his gaze somber. “We rednecks have our pride,” he told her tautly. “We believe in fair fights. And we don’t let a bunch of bastards dishonor a man in uniform.” He paused. “But you wouldn’t understand any of that.”

“Rucker!” Amazed and upset, she held onto his jacket sleeve. He firmly pried her fingers off it and got out of the car. “If you hit anyone, I’ll never forgive you!” she called desperately just as he slammed the door shut.

“Sit down and don’t move! If you do, I’ll … I’ll …”

“Calm down, Dee,” Rucker said in a careful, soothing tone. He walked through her living room to the old hearth, sat down on it, and gingerly balanced his hands on his denimed knees. He was well aware that the moonlit room was a cocoon filled with Dinah’s gestating anger. She flung her leather coat on an upholstered armchair.

“Don’t tell me to calm down, you ruffian! Not after what you just put me through!” Dinah didn’t care if her voice was strained and shaky; She snapped on a floor lamp near the fireplace and stomped into her kitchen.
“Bonjour!”
Nureyev called from his perch by the window. Dinah clicked on a soft light over the sink.

“Pipe down!” she told the crow as she grabbed a large mixing bowl from a bottom cabinet. She’d never before been involved in an escapade like tonight’s. Rucker had punched one Peevy in the jaw and another in the ribs. The third Peevy had battled unsuccessfully with the Marine. Dinah slammed the bowl into the sink then rubbed her temples, trying to unscramble her emotions. The fight had been terrifying and brutal but also, she had to admit, wildly exciting. She was furious at Rucker for brawling and mad at herself for feeling so primitively thrilled.

Her teeth clenched so hard that her jaw ached, Dinah filled the mixing bowl with warm water and carried
it back to the living room. Rucker bent forward, crooning to his possum, which had waddled out from its sleeping place in her guest bedroom. It squatted, an ugly gray oddity on her creamy carpet, between his feet. “Here,” Dinah ordered. Her arms trembling, she sloshed water out as she plunked the bowl down on the hearth. “Put your hands in that.”

He looked up at her solemnly but couldn’t resist lifting a jaunty auburn brow. “How bout I put my head in it and drown? Wouldn’t you like that better?”

“Don’t push me, ‘Charles Bronson’ McClure.” Her voice was so unsteady that she had to stop for a deep breath. “Don’t even talk to me.”

She continued her business in icy silence, knowing that his worried green eyes tracked every move she made. She threw logs onto the hearth grate and quickly started a fire. Then she marched to her bathroom at the back of the house and brought back a washcloth, bandages, and antiseptic ointment. She sat down beside him and unceremoniously grabbed one of his hands out of the bowl.

“Ouch,” he deadpanned. “You’re bein’ mean.”

“Shut up,” she said, and her voice broke. Tears slid over her dark lashes and down her cheeks. Crying softly, she kept her eyes trained on her ministrations to his bruised, scraped knuckles. An anguished part of her wanted to croon sweet things to those knuckles, but she firmly ignored the urge.

“Oh, Dee,” he said gruffly. “Dee, don’t cry.” He reached out with his other hand to smooth back a strand of dark hair that clung to her wet face, but she raised her eyes and glared a warning at him.

“You brawling maniac,” she said. “Don’t touch me. Put that hand back! Put it back in the water! Don’t drip on my carpet!”

He obeyed slowly. “I embarrassed you,” he told her in a weary voice. “I reckon the kind of man you admire would have had more dignity than to fight. He would have gone for the police, or sweet-talked those pig kissers into calling it a night.” He glanced down at his torn
sweatshirt and dirt-stained jeans. “But I had to help that Marine out. He was just a kid.”

Remembering his earlier accusation about her attitude, she shook her fist at him and choked back sobs. “You d-did not embarrass me! I’m not an elitist, arrogant snob! Be quiet!”

“At least those Peevy boys’ll think twice before they gang up on anybody else. And you said they don’t even live in Mount Pleasant. It’s not like you have to worry about losin’ their votes.”

“I don’t care about the Peevys! I’m upset at
you
! I’ve never”—she brushed at her face roughly—“never seen such a wanton, reckless display of self-gratifying egotism in my entire life! A grown man who can’t solve problems without using his fists! A man who’s willing to risk being maimed or killed for the sake of some macho code of honor! Rambo!”

“And what’s wrong with Rambo?” he asked angrily. He jerked his hand away from her. “Dammit, I may have embarrassed you, but you get down off your high horse and give me some respect!”

She grabbed his hand back. “You … did … not … embarrass … me!” she emphasized between clenched teeth.

“What, then?” he demanded fiercely.

“I was proud of you, you idiot!” She clutched his hand, and her head drooped over it as she tried to hide the new tears that cascaded down her face.

After a shocked moment he whispered in an incredulous voice, “You were? Then why are you mad as a wet settin’ hen?”

“Because you could have gotten your thick skull cracked! You frightened me and I hate feeling frightened! I don’t know what I’m going to do with you! Or about you! I want a predictable, cerebral, sophisticated man; a diplomatic—”

“A wimp,” he intoned.

“Ooooh,” she moaned in disgust. Why did she care about this man even more now than before? Damn his appeal and his way of making her feel exquisitely female. Dinah smeared the back of his hand with ointment.
“Just quit talking, Rucker. Just let me finish this in peace!”

He complied gallantly, and when both his hands were bandaged he got up without a word and took the bowl of water back to the kitchen. Dinah propped her head on one hand and stared into the fire, trying to reclaim her good sense. But one important fact was undeniable. She was proud of Rucker. Deeply proud.

“Here, nurse.” She looked up to find him holding out a tumbler half full of brandy. Dinah took it as he sat down on the hearth, facing her. He had a similar glass in his hand. He reached over and clinked it to hers. “To regrets.” He paused, his eyes troubled.

She gazed at him in tearful puzzlement. “Regrets?”

He nodded, and suddenly she noticed how weary and dejected he looked. He took a deep swallow of brandy and stared into the fire. “I’ll be goin’ back to Birmingham tomorrow.”

Dinah opened her mouth in dismay. A thousand new conflicts battled inside her. Going? He was going? “Why?” she asked in a small voice.

He studied her with disarming intensity. “Because it’s for the best.”

“Who’s best?” she blurted. “Your best, or mine? What do you know about what’s best for anyone?”

A frown began to pull his expressive brows together. “Dammit, don’t fiddle-faddle around with words. You want me outta here, I’m going.”

Dinah stared at him for several seconds, her lips parted, her mind churning. Then she stood and walked quickly to a pair of windows that looked out on the back porch and the woods beyond it. She sat her brandy on the white bookshelf beside the windows and leaned one hand on the sleek wood, then she gazed blankly into the darkness outside. You can’t let him go, a wise inner voice told her. It’s foolish to keep him here, she countered.

Her body stiffened as Rucker stopped behind her. He clasped her shoulders firmly, his fingers communicating the dangerous sensuality that had simmered between them since the night they met. Dinah shivered
and shut her eyes, feeling the size and heat of his body as if he were pressing against her back.

“Say it,” he urged hoarsely. “Just say, ‘You don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell with me, Rucker,’ and I’ll leave.”

Dinah took a deep breath and held tightly to the bookcase. “You don’t have …” She stopped, her heart racing so fast that she felt dizzy. “You don’t …” she tried again. She felt his hands trembling on her arms and realized with a bittersweet thrill that she had the power to make him happy or miserable. He held the same power over her. It’s no good to be practical or logical about this man, she admitted suddenly. I’m crazy about him. Dinah twisted around, her eyes tormented. “Stay,” she whispered raggedly.

“Oh, Dee.”

The air was heavy with intoxicating promise. His eyes glowing with pleasure, he raised his battered hands and cupped her face. His fingertips roamed over the flushed skin, rubbing away the tear streaks, soothing the silky, swollen areas under her eyes. Dinah heard herself murmur incoherently. Then she slipped her arms around his neck and buried her fingers deep into his thick hair.

“Stay,” she repeated in anguish. “But don’t scare me with any more Rambo heroics. How do your hands feel?”

“What hands?” he teased. They roamed down to her arms, then dropped lower and clasped her waist, squeezing gently, pulling her forward. “Oh. These hands. They feel fine, darlin’, just fine. I don’t think they’ve ever had a better time.”

Dinah closed her eyes and rested her forehead against his cheek. She felt his fingers slide down her lower back to her hips and, without the slightest inhibition, spread across her rump. There’s nothing timid about this man, Dinah acknowledged with shocked pleasure. He caressed her with a lusty appreciation that was both good-hearted and blatantly seductive. Even through the thick corduroy of her slacks his technique worked its desired goal on her defenses. She groaned a little and curled against his body.

“There’s a pure wildcat under your pretty pink skin, Madam Mayor,” he taunted in a wicked, throaty voice.

“Temporary insanity. I’ve never—”

“Acted so … so un-mayorly before,” he finished drolly. “I know.” Rucker’s voice dropped, becoming a thick murmur against her ear. “But, oh, little lady, you’re gonna surprise yourself a whole lot more than this, before I’m through.”

He curved his hands under her rump and abruptly picked her up. Dinah gripped his shoulders as he pressed her to the wall by the bookshelves. Suddenly his body was wedged between her legs, snug against her, and her thighs clung to his hips. Even though he was lean, he was a big man, and she cried out with the sensation of being overwhelmed. Quickly he adjusted his hold on her hips, making her more comfortable, cradling her gently.

“All right?” he asked in a worried, low voice. “Too rough?”

“No.” She rested her head in the crook of his neck, and her voice was muffled against his warm skin. “I’m just feeling particularly female at this moment.” She didn’t tell him that this particularly dignified and pristine female had no idea how to deal with such an aggressive, bluntly sexual male. Men had always catered to her icy decorum and been careful not to ruffle her reserve. Not Rucker. He ruffled her reserve and everything else.

His tone was tender and amused. “I’ll take that as a compliment, thank you, ma’am.”

“It is, macho man, it is.”

“You Jane, me Tarzan.”

“You Rambo, me—I don’t know what I am.” She sounded resigned.

He spoke against her ear, his voice provocative and serious. “You’re a prim little ol’ beauty queen who’s come to her senses.”

Dinah slowly turned her face upwards and kissed his cheek. “I’ve lost my senses,” she corrected.

“Same difference. You need to run wild a little.” She moaned a soft, encouraging sound as he pushed his
lower body further into the harbor of her thighs. “Come on, Dee,” he murmured. “Run wild with me.”

His very hard arousal was evident under the denim of his jeans, and when it found a home in the indentation of her body she welcomed it with a compliant movement of her hips. The wall was hard against her back; Rucker’s body was almost as hard against her breasts and stomach. Suddenly she kissed him, grinding her mouth onto his with rough need.

He groaned in the back of his throat and rolled her gently from side to side, working his hips even tighter against her, pressing and releasing, showing her how good it would be if there were no clothes between them. Dinah gasped for air and retreated, smacking funny little kisses over his face in an attempt to playfully lighten the intense mood. Smiling weakly, he turned his face at various angles to catch every one.

“Hot damn,” he said in a strangled voice. “This oughta be the national sport. Free-form smoochin’.”

Dinah considered herself an efficient, responsible decision maker, and always had. Once a conclusion was reached, she didn’t brood about the consequences, and tonight was no different. Dinah made her choice, and that choice was to take Rucker McClure into her life, her soul, and her bed.

“Carry me to my briefcase,” she whispered, her mouth grazing his right ear. He pulled back, bewildered, and looked at her askance. “Over there on the couch,” she added. “You’ll see.”