Lovers and Strangers (12 page)

But he relaxed, just a tiny bit, as Faith's chin lifted in automatic answer to the other man's presumption. She backed away a half step, preparing to use her newly learned, advance discouraging glare, when Sammie-Jo added her two cents to the discussion, obviously agreeing with whatever the muscle-bound hulk had said. Faith hesitated, her indecision and discomfort evident even to a blind man, Jack thought. Couldn't they see she didn't want to do whatever had been suggested? And then she shrugged and smiled, nodding her head in agreement.

She started to hand her glass of wine to Sammie-Jo, then changed her mind and lifted it to her lips instead, draining it in one long gulp. Tossing the empty glass into a nearby trash can with the air of someone who'd just thrown caution to the wind, she turned and put her hand in the hulk's. He led her to the makeshift dance floor, a cleared space between the chaise lounges and patio tables, and took her into his arms.

Jack's teeth clenched together so hard his jaw ached. His first impulse was to storm across the courtyard and tear them apart. How dare that hulking behemoth put his hands on her. How dare she let him.

Dammit,
he thought, furious,
I should be the one teaching her to dance.

I wish Jack were the one teaching me to dance,
Faith thought, smiling vaguely up at the young man who held her without quite meeting his eyes. She was sure she would have been more at ease in Jack's arms, instead of feeling compelled to hold herself so stiffly. Her partner was trying to press her too close to his big body, and he was breathing too hard. She was sure Jack wouldn't be trying to plaster his body to hers from thigh to chest. Nor would he be breathing his hot breath all over her neck, panting like one of her brother's winded coon hounds after a chase.

"Come on, Faith," Dennis said, giving her a squeeze. "Relax. You're stiff as a board."

Faith tried to comply, she really did, but it was hard to relax when she was in danger of having the breath squeezed out of her. "You're holding me too tight," she complained softly, pushing against his shoulders in an effort to loosen his hold.

"I'm supposed to be holding you tight. We're slow dancing."

How can this be dancing?
she wondered.
We're hardly even moving our feet.

"I can't breathe," she said into his shoulder.

Dennis laughed at that, as if she'd made a joke, and pressed her closer. His hand slid to the small of her back, well below the waistband of her jeans, and she felt his pelvis grind against hers. She stiffened even more, trying to tip her hips back and away, but he didn't seem to notice.

Maybe, she thought, her father had been right about the evils of dancing after all. It certainly wasn't as much fun as she'd always thought it would be.

She slid her hands off of her partner's shoulders, drawing her elbows and forearms in against his chest in an effort to put a little space between them. He apparently took her maneuvering as encouragement and lifted his head from her neck to nuzzle her ear.

"You're awfully sweet," he murmured, his voice thick and a bit slurred. "How'd you get to be so sweet?"

Oh, my God,
Faith thought, repulsed,
is that his tongue in my ear?!

She was just about to try stepping on his feet in an effort to free herself when she felt his head lift and his hold loosen slightly. She drew her arms even further between them, taking the opportunity to give herself some breathing room, and shifted her hips back so they weren't pressed against his. Now, if she could just hold him off until the song was over, she would never even
think
about learning to dance ever again.

And then, suddenly, he let her go completely. "Yeah, sure, she's all yours," she heard him say and she looked up to find Jack standing where Dennis had just been.

"May I have this dance?" he said and opened his arms.

Without a word, Faith stepped trustingly into his embrace, her hands lifting to his shoulders as if she'd done it a hundred times before. He caught one hand in his, lacing their fingers together as he slid his other arm around her and settled his palm against her back in the classic dance posture. He held her close, but not too close, leaving enough space between them so he could look down into her eyes.

She smiled.

And he smiled.

And they began to move, slowly, swaying to the easy, sensual beat of the music. She followed him easily, guided by the hand on her back and the deliberate way he executed the steps for her. When she caught the rhythm, her steps matching his with growing confidence, he pulled her a bit closer and began to vary the simple back and forth motion of the slow cha-cha. Faith gave a soft laugh, the sound low and breathy, her eyes shining with delight as she gazed up at him.

Jack resisted the urge to crush her to him. "Having fun?" he asked.

"Oh, yes. I didn't think I was going to like dancing," she admitted, darting a quick mutinous glance at her previous partner, "but this is
wonderful."

Jack laughed and pulled her closer, executing a slightly more complicated variation of the step as an excuse for his actions.

Faith's breath caught in her throat as her breasts brushed against the hard wall of his chest. Jack faltered, losing the rhythm of their steps. They stood stock-still in the near embrace of the dance, staring. Everything else—the music, the laughter of other people, the scents of fast food and night-blooming flowers—
everything
faded into insignificance around them. They were aware only of each other, saw only each other. The air grew thick between them, heavy with words unspoken, desires unmet, longings unfurling into heated life. So many longings. And needs... Needs neither had even known they had before that moment.

The lighthearted little song came to an end while they stood there, lost in each other, and another started playing. Something slow and passionate, the words describing the indescribable yearning of a man aching for a woman just out of his reach. "Goin' Out of My Head" by Little Anthony and the Imperials. How appropriate, Jack thought. He'd started losing his mind the minute she looked up at him with those gold-flecked eyes of hers.

"Jack," she said softly. It was a question. And an invitation.

He uttered a shaky, strangled sound, halfway between a groan and a rueful laugh. "You shouldn't look at me like that, Angel."

"Like what?"

"Just close your eyes," he murmured.
Please.
Maybe he could keep his head if she closed her eyes. If she stopped looking at him as if she'd like to eat him alive. He put his hand on the back of her head, bringing it down to his shoulder so he wouldn't be tempted by the look in her too expressive eyes.

Faith sighed and closed her eyes, nestling into him with all the confidence of a beloved and loving child.

Don't,
he wanted to say to her.
Don't trust me.
But he folded his arms around her, gathering her close to his heart, and lay his cheek against her hair. The song melted into another, and then another, and still they swayed, barely moving, completely oblivious to changes in tempo or speed, lost in their own little world.

Faith marveled at the differences between this embrace and all the others she had ever experienced. Jack was holding her just as close as Dennis had done. His breath was just as warm. His body just as hard and unyielding and male. But she didn't feel smothered or overwhelmed, or pressured to respond in any way. She felt cherished. And protected. And safe. So unutterably safe, cradled, oh so gently, in the hard circle of his enveloping arms. And then she felt his lips move against her temple, whisper soft, and she wanted more than safety and gentleness from him.

She stirred restlessly in his embrace, seeking something she had neither the words nor the experience to ask for. She rubbed her cheek against his T-shirt clad shoulder, like a cat asking to be stroked, and flexed her fingers against the hard muscles of his chest.

Jack's arms tightened around her. "Be still," he murmured raggedly, fighting for control.

Her answer was a plaintive murmur of dissent and the soft press of her breasts against his chest as she slipped her arms around his back and nestled closer.

Jack moaned in defeat and desire and bent his head lower, burrowing through her hair to press his face against the curve of her neck. His lips touched warm flesh and, helplessly, he opened his mouth to taste her.

Faith felt the dampness of his lips and tongue against her skin and shivered in response, unconsciously letting her head fall back to give him better access. He cupped her skull in his palms, supporting its weight, and ran his tongue up the delicate arch of her throat.

"Jack," she sighed, her voice rife with longing. "Jack."

"Dammit, Faith, I'm no good for you," he growled, low, but his tone made the harsh words a caress. "I've done things and seen things you can't possibly imagine. I'm too old for you. I—Faith, dammit, open your eyes and
look at
me."

She lifted her lids with ponderous slowness, looking up at him through eyes made slumberous and heavy with desire. "Jack," she murmured.

He stared down at her for a long moment, frozen with indecision and guilt. And then she parted her lips slightly, her tongue peeking out as if to taste the kiss he hadn't yet given her, and he was lost.

A low sound, half pain, half pleasure, rumbled in his chest. "I'll probably burn in hell for this," he growled, his voice savage, his mouth so close his lips brushed hers as he spoke. "But I can only resist just so much temptation. And you, Angel—Dammit,
you
I can't resist at all," he groaned, and took her mouth with his.

Chapter 6

There was no escaping her, Jack thought, disgruntled and on edge as he prowled through his darkened apartment, searching for surcease from the desire that clawed at him. Evidence of Faith's presence was in every room, on every surface, in the very air he breathed. Mirrors and windows sparkled, even in the dim light. Hardwood floors gleamed. The furniture smelled of lemon oil. The sheets on his bed and the towels in his bathroom carried the faint perfume of flower-scented fabric softener. She'd taken the time to impose order on his bookcases, too, while she was cleaning. Not only were the books dust free, but they were upright and arranged separately from the videotapes and CDs, with space found for neat stacks of magazines, which—he knew because he stopped, midprowl, to check—were shelved according to the date of publication.

Jack struggled with the childish urge to yank them out of the bookcase and fling them on the floor, leaving her handiwork in as much of a mess as she'd left his libido. He stifled it and stomped through the dining room into the kitchen instead, whacking his shin on her cart of cleaning supplies as he rounded the counter. With an oath, he shoved it aside and reached out, flicking on the overhead light. Her pink sponge was perched on the edge of the sink. Her yellow rubber gloves were arranged, side by side on the counter. Her flowered apron lay in a crumbled heap on the floor. Jack bent over and picked it up, intending to toss it on the counter with the other tools of her trade, and found himself lifting it to his nose instead. It smelled faintly of lemon cleanser and fabric softener and that same elusive fragrance that had invaded his senses when he'd buried his face in the curve of her neck.

Innocence.

Sweetness.

Warmth.

"Oh, don't be a jackass, Shannon," he muttered savagely.

Innocence didn't have a scent, unless you were talking about babies. Sweetness was for fresh-baked cinnamon buns or caramel corn. And warmth didn't smell, unless something was burning.

As he was burning.

And she had been burning.

He looked down to find that he'd crushed the apron in his fists and, very deliberately, relaxed his grip.

She'd been right to call a halt to things. Absolutely right. He'd let it go too far. No matter that she had been willing, even eager, up until the point when she suddenly froze on him. Her actions only meant that she had come to her senses a moment before he had.

But, God, he wished she'd remained insensible and unaware just a little longer. He'd barely had a chance to taste her lips before she'd made a muffled sound against his mouth and stiff-armed him, pushing out of his embrace. He'd held on for a moment longer than he should have, surprised by her unexpected action. Instead of fighting to free herself, though, she just stood there, docile as a chastened child under his hands after that first initial action. The expression in her gold-flecked eyes wasn't outrage or embarrassment or even fear, as he half expected. It was anger. Anger laced with resentment, tinged with guilt. The guilt he could understand, given what he'd learned of her background during the last two days. But the anger? That made as little sense to him now as it had when he'd rescued her from the clutches of Freddie Bowen. For the life of him, he couldn't figure out why she should be mad at him in either circumstance.