Holm, Stef Ann (41 page)

She
arched a brow. "In the can?"

"Where
else?"

"It's
dirty in there." She peered inside where swirls of green and red and
russet had made a murky pool of what looked like syrup.

Alex's
mouth carried a hint of a smile as he gazed at her. Sweat trickled down his
unshaven cheek, and he blew a stream of smoke through his lips. "That's
the way this works, honey. To get the paint off the brushes, you clean them in
the turpentine. Then the turpentine gets dirty."

"I
know that."

"So
put the brushes in."

She
hesitated. Alex leaned back on his heels and flicked the butt of his cigarette
into the hedges. He pulled the porcelain swing-top stopper off the root beer
and took long swallows until he'd emptied the bottle on one breath. Her gaze
was drawn to his mouth, the glistening sweat above his lip and the dewy
droplets of root beer that he licked off with his tongue. She thought about how
it had felt to have his tongue in her mouth, sensuously dancing with her. How
good it felt with his lips on her skin, sucking her nipples. Her mouth went dry
as she remembered the sensations he'd given her that night in the hotel room. She
shivered, pure fire shooting through her body. If he kissed her right now, in
plain sight, she wouldn't care. She'd—

"Have
you had enough time to think it over?"

"What?"
she blurted, brought out of her erotic thoughts.

He
tilted his head, an unspoken question reflected in his brown eyes.

She
didn't want him asking her anything else, so she quickly said, "I was
going to." Then she knelt down across from him and plunged the two brushes
she held into the turpentine.

"Go
ahead. Clean some of them. If I do them all, I might be here until
morning." He presented her with a deliberate smile. "Then again,
staying until morning would be nice."

The
suggestion nearly knocked her over. Every bit of common sense she had told her
to run in the opposite direction. And suddenly, she saw him lying on her bed
with her, and them both—

"But
if I spent the night," he said, intruding on her imagination, "I'd
miss the train tomorrow and then my manager would fine me even though I'm
suspended. I have rules to follow."

She
knew he was teasing her, but her mind was still someplace else. She had to pull
it to what he was saying now. "You won't be suspended the entire seventeen
days on the road." She pressed the brush to the bottom of the can, careful
not to dip it so far she'd get oily paint on her fingers. "I'll put you in
on the eighth against Boston."

"I
always look forward to seeing Cy."

She
knew he didn't mean that.

Their
knuckles met in the narrow opening and Camille refused to let the touch affect
her. It didn't, not really. Or so she told herself. It was his voice, low and
husky, that warmed her skin through the thin sleeves of her dress. "You
really want the pennant, don't you?"

She
let out a slow breath. "I really do."

"How
come?"

Pressing
the bristles against the edge of the can, she deliberated giving him the real
answer. To pull her father into the conversation would bring up an embarrassing
subject for Camille. She didn't want to look like she was in this just to get
his approval. Her reasons for wanting the win had less and less to do with
Daddy.

After
a long pause, she dared to confess, "Because I'm twenty-two and I've never
been good at anything that's really mattered."

His
head bent low over hers, the fringe of his hair teasing her forehead. The near
touch caught a droplet of water against her skin and it rolled in a slow path
down the hollow of her cheek. She stilled, feeling the heat cling to her.

"From
what I know about you, I'll bet you made good grades in school," he said.

She
managed to speak. "I did, and that's the whole point. That was expected of
me. I want to do something
un
expected." The thickness of her braid
lay heavily on her neck; her chemise felt as if it had been plastered on. The
afternoon sun was unkind, bringing beads of perspiration to her brows.

"And
baseball defines
unexpected?"

Her
skin burned like the smoldering end of one of his cigarettes; the trickle of
perspiration rolling between her breasts felt annoying and almost unbearable.
Is
he as aware of my presence as I am of his?
"If I bring the Keystones
to the pennant and we win, I'll prove to myself, my family, and my friends that
I can succeed at something that depended on my decisions." She was acutely
conscious of the way he watched her, looked into her eyes. "My father
started his own store from nothing and made it successful. Edwina Wolcott
opened her own finishing school for young ladies and gained the respect of
every lady in town. And what about Meg's grandmother, Mrs. Rothman? She fights
for women's rights. You can't do anything of more value."

"Sewing
a straight stitch doesn't matter?"

That
he would even offer such an obtuse statement made her jaw drop open.
"Well, I like that. What a thing to say."

"I'm
saying it because you shouldn't have to put aside other things just to prove
yourself in another direction. I saw those little wall-hanging goodies in your
house. I like the one with the bluebirds on it."

"That
bellpull?"

"I
don't know what it's called."

"It's
a bellpull and I could make one in my sleep. Who cares? There is no effort
required," she responded sharply, using more vigor than necessary to clean
the brush. "The year you left baseball, you were batting two-twenty-one.
That's the kind of success I'm looking for. You know what it's like."

"Hand
me that other brush," he said, seemingly ignoring her comment.

Absently,
she reached for it and smacked the handle into his open palm. She didn't move
away in time; a smear of Indian red paint marked the backside of her hand. They
looked at the spot together. Her skin seemed so pale next to his, appear even
lighter by the luminous white sun above their heads. The sunshine scent of him
was like an intoxicant through her blood. Crazy thoughts scudded through her
mind as he put his fingertip into the blotch and made a small pattern. A heart.

"Sometimes,"
he said, her own heart jumping in her chest, "things that seem so great
really aren't. Sometimes just being with somebody you care about is the only
thing that matters."

His
words snatched her breath away.

How
had the conversation about baseball turned into this? The hot air surrounding
them seemed to be combustible.

"I..."
She gazed about, then locked onto a distraction. "Somebody took the
cushions off the lawn swing."

She
rose to her feet, nearly stumbling in the process, and quickly went to the swing.
Her breath came in short choking gasps and she told herself to quit acting so
ridiculous. So... in lust with the man. It was shameless. Her
thoughts
about
him were shameless.

Picking
up one of the cushions, she leaned into the framework to deposit the molded
horsehair back in place. As she turned for the other one, she stopped. White
paint made a crisscross pattern down the front of her lavender dress—an imprint
from the wooden slats of the swing.

"When
did somebody paint the swing?" she blurted in Alex's direction.

A
smile caught the corners of Alex's mouth. "Doc and Specs slapped a quick
coat of whitewash over it when you and Hildegarde were in the house."

"You
could have warned me."

"Yeah."
He straightened. "I could have. But I liked you with that dirt smudge you
had on the tip of your nose, and I liked you with the plumber's grease smeared
under it. I wanted to see what you'd look like really messy. Because I knew I'd
love it."

Love?
Even
though he hadn't said the word as an endearment, as a promise, it settled into
her heart, bringing with it a pang of longing. She blinked, unwilling to think
of the reference as anything more than casual.

She
held her arms out, careful not to get any more on herself than she already had,
noting the white stripes on her sleeves and on her wrists. There was even a
thick line across her breasts over two of the pearl bodice buttons. "Get
the turpentine. Quick."

"Whitewash
is harmless. It'll come off with water."

"Get
the hose. Quick."

Alex's
amused laughter didn't help matters; it only served to prickle her. He moved—
slowly
—to
the spigot and the coil of garden hose by the side of the house. He took his
own sweet time about it, as if he wanted her to stand there as long as possible
and feel sticky.

The
spray nozzle must have gotten knocked into the bushes, because he moved the
edge of her boxwood to the left, then right. She called out to him.

"Forget
about the nozzle."

"I
have to put the nozzle on."

"You
don't need it."

"I
need it."

He
continued his search, wearing an easy smile on his mouth that she wanted to
cover with paint.

Beside
the porch, on the pile of pebbles she put in the bottoms of her houseplant
containers, she spied the paintbrushes that had been used on the swing. Walking
with care, she went over to them and grasped the handle of one.

"You
don't need the nozzle," she said one more time.

"I
need the nozzle." His voice held a hint of mischief, as if he planned on
hosing her down like one of the firehouse horses.

On
second thought, she didn't want him coming anywhere near her with the garden
hose. As he scrounged around in the hedges, she crept toward him, determined.
With a bite of her lower hp, she aimed the paint-coated bristles at Alex,
flicked her wrist, and let the spatters fly in his direction.

"What
the hell?" Fast on his feet, he faced her, hose in his grasp.

He'd
found the nozzle.

The
paint splashes caught him on the side of the arm, down his torso and one thigh
of his pants. His gaze lowered, and he gave himself a perusal that seemed to
drag on forever. Then he surveyed her from head to toe, his eyes looking lazily
seductive. His broad shoulder dipped right as he leaned to the house.

"Don't
you turn on that hose," she cautioned.

His
large hand came down on the spigot and gave it a blatant twist.

Camille
bolted. Water sprayed the small of her back, causing her to shriek. As hot as
her skin was from the sun, the water felt like just-melted ice as it hit her.
She screamed as a fresh assault doused her neck and the backs of her arms.
Running in a circle around the old elm, she yelled. But even she had to admit
there wasn't much terror to the sounds coming out of her throat. They were more
akin to giggles.

"Turn
it off!" she begged. "Turn it off!"

"I
don't think so."

She
caught a glimpse of him as she ran through her graveyard of a garden. Paint
speckled the hair on his chest, dotted his skin, and was smeared over his flat
nipples. Black hair framed his face in a wild, untamed way that was both wicked
and alluring. She hid behind the tree, its rough bark next to her cheek. But
the sound of the water hissing over the grass reached her ears as he
approached. She made no effort to dodge him. She was trapped.

His
voice came to her in a low rasp. "I think you need to cool off."

Looking
into his eyes, she said, "I am cooled off."

"I'm
not."

Then
the water showered over them both as he kissed her beneath the sweet rain. His
mouth covered hers with a passion she had felt only a few times in her life—all
with Alex. Her neck arched to meet his lips more firmly. She would have clung
to him if she could have moved. The hose was slowly lowered, her skirts and his
pants legs drenched from the stream as he ignored it. He forced her mouth open
with his tongue, sliding it between her lips and deepening the kiss. He tasted
of root beer.

She
groaned into his mouth. She was incapable of thinking clearly. She stood there
like a statue, her body hot and blood flowing. The scent of his skin filled her
nostrils. They touched only at the lips, which made her grow restless. Yearning
ran deep inside her. She wanted him—wanted more than his kiss. She wanted him
as she'd wanted him in Boston—and more. This time, she wanted him to feel the
way she had.

If
he hadn't broken the kiss, she would have let him kiss her forever, outside,
with no regard to consequence. His eyes bore into hers with dark desire that
made her pulse skip. He had to be used to women swooning in his arms; she was
no different. Why couldn't she resist him?

Water
dripped off the tendrils of her hair that had come undone from her braid. She
stood before him, her breasts rising and falling.

Seconds
ticked by before she felt she could trust her voice.

"You
get to me, Alex..." She still held the whitewash paintbrush, she painted
an X on his chest. "Right here."