Magnolia Dawn (6 page)

He slid his hand from her elbow to the curve of her neck. The blood thrummed in her head, her limbs grew heavy. “No,” she whispered. “You're wrong.”

“What do you need, Annabelle Ames?” he asked, his voice thick. “What do you want?”

“You're going to end up alone, Anna. Almost forty, and all dried up already.”

She brought her hands to Rush's chest, curling her fingers into the sweat-dampened weave of his T-shirt, panic squeezing at her heart and lungs. “Don't you want to be held? To be cherished? Loved?”

She fought back Lowell's words, fought the way they made her feel,
alone and frightened. She sucked in a deep, painful breath. “I don't need anything,” she whispered, cursing the huskiness of her voice. “Especially from you.”

“No?” He cupped her chin in his palm and stared deeply into her eyes. “I don't believe you. Not for a moment.”

“That's your problem, isn't it?”

“Maybe it is,” he murmured. “And maybe I'd better solve it.” He lowered his eyes to her mouth and for one heart-stopping moment, she thought he was going to kiss her. Then he dropped his hand. “But today I've got a roof to repair. And I'm still on the clock.
See you around.”

Anna watched him walk away, tears burning the backs of her eyes. She despised him, she thought. She wanted him off her property. She wanted to never see him again.

She opened her mouth, his dismissal on the tip of her tongue. She swallowed it. She couldn't fire him, as much as she wanted to. She needed him. Ashland needed him.

Anna swore. But worse, much worse, was the fact that he'd been right. She wanted him. To kiss her. To hold and stroke and make love to her.

Anna pressed her lips tightly together to keep them from trembling. What a joke. He neither needed nor wanted her. And what if he did? She would only lie there, as stiff and dry as an old cypress board.

Memories of other times, of other men, filled her head. Her fiancé's sarcasm. Spencer McKee's laughter. Lee Fuller's violence. Anna shuddered, the images playing through her head like an obscene kaleidoscope.

Damn Rush Cousins for making her feel this way again. Damn him for making her remember. Before he'd come to Ashland, she'd been fine. Satisfied with her life. Resigned to her loveless future. She'd managed to tuck away the hurt, the disappointments, managed to tuck them into a quiet place where they hadn't the ability to touch her.

They touched now. Stinging, burning.

And they refused to be tucked away. They refused to let her be. Tears welled in her eyes once more, only this time she didn't have the strength to fight them off.

Chapter Four

A
nna shelved her pride and let Rush work on the roof alone. She couldn't bear working beside him, feeling his every glance, continually wondering what he was thinking and cursing herself for her own ridiculous thoughts. Instead, she began repairing walls that had been damaged by water from the leaking roof.

Consequently they'd barely spoken in the week since their argument over her and Travis's relationship. She'd continued to prepare and serve him his lunch; they'd even eaten their sandwiches together a couple of times. But there'd been no arguments or companionable discussions. No almost-kisses. Rush had been as quiet, as removed, as she. Almost as if he, too, still stung over their last meeting.

Anna made a sound of self-disgust. Right. What did he have to be embarrassed or angry over? He'd had the last word. The last laugh. He hadn't made a fool of himself.

Anna muttered an oath, viciously digging at the plaster wall. But she
had
made a fool of herself. She still was. Because no matter how she tried, no matter where she was or what she was involved in, she couldn't get him off of her mind.

The nights were the worst. Hot and still. The air heavy with moisture and the scents of the Delta. Night after night she lay in bed and stared at the ceiling, her thoughts on him, unable to sleep for imagining him naked, his flesh slick from the heat, quivering with arousal.

Unable to sleep for wondering what it would be like to have his heat over her, inside her.

Pretty hot thoughts for a forty-year-old spinster with a history of frigidity.

This had to stop, Anna told herself, slamming the hammer down on the end of the chisel. She had to find a way to make it stop. Otherwise she—

“Hey.”

Anna whirled around. Rush stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb. His T-shirt was drenched with sweat and clung to his muscular chest. He'd tied a bandana across his forehead to keep sweat from dripping into his eyes, and as she gazed at him he slipped it off, tucked it into his back jeans pocket and ran his fingers through his damp hair. She followed the movement of his hands, a sweet, heavy ache building deep inside her.

She brought her gaze back to his and he smiled, slow and easy. The ache tightened, and she muttered an oath. “Hey to you.”

Blue came barreling in from the kitchen. He stopped in front of Rush, his tail wagging so hard his whole backside shook. Rush squatted down and scratched the dog's ears and chest. With a whine of pleasure and submission, Blue rolled onto his back. Anna scowled.
Turncoat.
She would have to have a serious talk with the beast.

But, she wondered, who would have a serious talk with her?

Rush scratched the dog for another moment, then straightened. “Glad I'm not that wall,” he said, eyeing the chisel and hammer. “Looks to me like you're trying to kill it.”

She arched her eyebrows coolly. “Actually, I was imagining you were. The wall, that is.”

He laughed and started for her. Like a cat, she thought. Quietly, fluidly and with the unshakable determination of a hunter stalking its prey.

She fought the urge to take the mouse's way and run. Instead, she turned back to the wall. Placing the chisel at the edge of the water damage, she struck it with the hammer. Hard. Bits of plaster tumbled to the floor.

“I guess that means you're still ticked off.”

“Not at all,” she answered, once more slamming the hammer onto the chisel.

Unperturbed, Rush leaned against the wall, forcing her to stop working and look at him. “It's been mighty quiet around here this week.”

“Peaceful,” she countered.

“You didn't miss our invigorating exchanges? Not even a little?”

“Invigorating exchanges?” she repeated incredulously. “Is that what you call them?”

“Sure.” He grinned. “What would you call them?”

“Aggravating. Annoying.”

“Exciting. Exhilarating.”

“Maybe to you.” She made a sound of frustration. “Did you need something?”

He leaned toward her, his eyes alight with mischief. “Loaded question, Annabelle.”

Her pulse scrambled, and she called herself an idiot. “Then I'll be more direct. You're keeping me from my work.”

He moved his gaze over her face. “How about a truce?”

“Doubtful.”

“The roof's finished.”

She sucked in a quick, surprised breath. “What?”

“The roof,” he repeated, looking smug. “It's finished.”

“But that's…impossible. I'd scheduled several more weeks….” She scowled at him. “If this is some sort of sick joke, you're in very big trouble.”

Rush laughed and shrugged. “No joke, babe. It's done.”

The biggest job of the summer, Anna thought, stunned. Complete. No more leaks, no more crumbling, bulging walls. No more lying awake at night worrying about the damage the next rain would bring.

And finished in half the time she'd thought it would take. At this rate, they could very possibly make every repair on the list before she went back to teaching in August.

Anna tipped her head back and laughed, feeling as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders. “I can't believe it. This is…wonderful! It's…great. I don't know how to thank you.”

“A little warmth,” Rush teased, reaching out and lightly caressing her cheek. “An occasional smile. Something cold to drink.” He dropped his hand and smiled wickedly. “I'm an uncomplicated, simple man.”

Anna laughed again, her cheek still warm from his touch. “As uncomplicated as a wolf.”

“I resent that.”

He looked entirely too pleased with himself, Anna thought, setting aside the chisel and hammer. Smug. Cocky. But the way she felt right now, she wouldn't care if he thought he was God's gift to women in general and her in particular.

She smiled. “I'll never doubt you again.”

Rush leaned toward her. “Watch what you say, Annabelle Ames. Your promises may come back to haunt you.”

She laughed and shook her head. “I still can't believe you just showed up here at Ashland. Out of nowhere. I'd already resigned myself to another high-school student.”

“Not out of nowhere,” he murmured. “Boston. Remember?”

She laughed again and fluttered her lashes. “As far as a good Southern belle like myself is concerned, that is nowhere. Didn't you know, civilization ends at the Mason-Dixon Line?”

“Why, Annabelle, I do believe you're giddy.”

“I'm not the giddy type. Ask anyone.” Even as the words passed her lips, she had to admit she did feel…giddy. And light-headed, and about as steady as a sixteen-year-old.

She laughed again, not caring that he probably thought her one of those neurotic Southern women Tennessee Williams had written about. “I have fresh-squeezed lemonade in the icebox. And some tea cookies. I'll meet you outside in five.”

* * *

Instead of waiting for Anna on the gallery, Rush chose a lush, shady spot under the magnolia that stood closest to the house. Slivers of sunlight peeked through the thick canopy of leaves, dappling the ground with pinpoints of light.

Rush picked up a magnolia petal, shed from one of the blossoms above. He rubbed the large petal between his fingers, enjoying its soft, waxy surface. He held it to his nose. Its fragrance was delicate, sweet yet citrusy, too; its color a pure, virginal white.

Rush drew his eyebrows together, holding the flower to his nose once more. Although magnolia blossoms looked sturdy, they were really quite fragile. They bruised when handled, withering at even the most gentle caress.

The magnolia was not quite as it appeared, he thought, smiling to himself. Just as Annabelle was not completely the woman she appeared to be. She continued to surprise and mystify him. She continued to intrigue him.

Rush laughed out loud, thinking of her offer of lemonade and tea cookies. What the hell was a tea cookie, anyway? Certainly not something he would associate with a woman wearing work boots and wielding a chisel and hammer.

Yet in many ways Annabelle was old-fashioned, ladylike and genteel. He thought of the music box, of the porcelain belle inside. He could envision Anna that way, dressed in a picture hat and hoop skirt, her arms full of flowers.

Just as he could picture her atop a roof in the dead of summer, nailing the hell out of roofing tiles.

And her thumb, he thought, smiling at the memory and at her as she emerged from Ashland carrying a tray. He tossed the magnolia aside, and watched Anna as she crossed the lawn to meet him. He liked the way she moved, slowly and fluidly, with an athletic sort of grace. She didn't swing her hips or sashay; her stride was long and full of purpose.

Anna stopped before him, her face flushed. She'd freed her hair from its clip and brushed it until it glowed golden in the waning sunlight. He smiled up at her. “This tree's been taunting me for over a week now. I promised when I finished the roof I would reward myself by sitting in its shade.”

She hesitated, glancing quickly back at the gallery.

“Come on.” He patted the grass beside him. “I promise I won't bite.”

The color in her cheeks deepened. “I wasn't worried about that.”

“I must be doing something wrong.”

She laughed lightly and set the tray on the ground, then took a seat herself. “I hope it's not too tart for you,” she said,
pouring him a glass of the beverage and handing it to him.

He took the glass; their fingers brushed. He found her gaze and held it. “Not to worry, Annabelle. I like mine tart.”

She flushed again and dragged her gaze away. He watched as she nervously sipped her lemonade, then fiddled with the hem of her shorts.

What would it take to draw her out? he wondered, studying her. What would it feel like to have her trust? The way Travis Gentry did.

He needed her trust. He needed her to open up if he was ever going to determine if he had a place here at Ashland. But at this moment he didn't give a damn about unearthing his past. At this moment, all he was interested in was Anna, the woman.

“This is my favorite time of year, even with the heat,” she murmured, not looking at him. “Because of the magnolias.”

“You don't say.”

Her lips tipped up at the corners. “Did you know that it's the heat that makes their scent so sweet and so potent? Without it they'd bloom but be almost odorless.”

“They do smell heavenly.”

She tilted her head back, gazing at the thick foliage above. Her neck arched with the movement and her hair fell away from her face, revealing the slender column of her throat. Her skin was as smooth and white as the blossoms above, and the urge to touch her raced over him. He told himself to get a grip.

“You've chosen a poor spot for our celebration,” she said. “This tree has a rather dangerous history.” She shifted her gaze to his, a small smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. “It's called Sweethearts' Magnolia.”

He grinned and plucked a long blade of grass from the ground beside him and twirled it between his fingers. “That does sound dangerous.”

She turned her gaze once more to the canopy of green above. “Three generations of Ames brides were proposed to under these branches, and it's rumored several others were simply seduced here.”

“You'll give me ideas.”

“I doubt that.”

“Sweethearts' Magnolia,” he repeated.

“And we're not even friends. You see the irony.”

He flashed her a quick smile. “We could remedy that.”

She arched her eyebrows. “I thought you didn't believe men and women could be friends?”

Because of sex.
Rush curved his fingers around the blade of grass, arousal tightening in his gut. “Maybe I've changed my mind.”

She picked up her glass, but didn't sip. “But that's a woman's prerogative.”

“And here I thought you believed in equality between the sexes.”

“You have me there, Rush Cousins.” She shifted her gaze back to Ashland, her cheeks rosy with color.

Rush followed her gaze, attempting to see what she did when she looked at the house, attempting to feel what she felt. Her face changed in subtle ways, softening. The expression in her eyes had the glow of pride and passion, of belonging.

He'd never felt that way about anyone or anything. He hadn't wanted to for so long, he couldn't even remember how it felt to yearn to belong.

But still, looking at Anna now, he thought he could understand. “This place is in your blood, isn't it?”

She met his eyes. “You could say that.” She drained the remainder of her glass of lemonade, then set it aside. “People around here think I'm crazy for loving Ashland so much, for being so determined to hold on to her. You probably do, too.”

“I don't think that at all.”

She smiled. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome.”

She looked away again and silence enveloped them for a moment. It was a comfortable quiet, the kind they had never before experienced together. And Anna began to relax. Really relax. Rush saw her guard begin to slip: the line of her shoulders softened, as did the curve of her jaw. She lost the nervous edginess, the sharp defensiveness. Even her mouth seemed softer. Pouty, kissable.

“Tell me what it feels like,” he murmured, trailing his fingers across the mat of grass.

“What what feels like?” she asked, drawing her eyebrows together in question.

“Belonging.”

She paused, the blue of her eyes becoming softer still. But this time with sympathy. With the understanding of someone who had experienced her share of alienation.

“But surely,” she continued, “you have somewhere you belong…people you go back to.”

Rush thought of the years spent alone, thought of the struggle to find a place he fit. To find a place where he was comfortable with himself and his history.