Molly (5 page)

He walked closer, lifting his head to gaze up
at the work of art.

“Do you like it?” Jedidiah asked.

“It’s unbelievable.”

“Molly did it. Of all her work, it’s my
favorite.”

Samuel studied the painting. He didn’t know
much about art, but he had heard that it reflected the spirit and
soul of the artist. If that were true, Molly had a soul as rich as
the earth and a spirit as freewheeling as the sun. Something in him
reached out to the painting, and he felt a tiny glow spring to life
in the deep, dark recesses of his own battered soul.

He continued to gaze at the painting.
Suddenly there was a sound at the doorway, and he turned.

Molly was standing there, posing. She was
both mischievous sprite and lusty
femme fatale
, and she
made the room as bright as new copper pennies. She’d been gone only
a few minutes, and he was surprised to discover that he had missed
her. Not her, he corrected himself. He’d merely missed her
particular brand of excitement.

He leaned against the mantel, smiling. He
could hardly wait to see what she would do next.

She slowly lowered her hand from the
doorframe and began to walk into the room. Her eyes locked on his,
and Samuel had no doubt whatsoever that the show was entirely for
him.

Molly didn’t simply enter a room; she came in
like a full-fledged parade. Her feet clicked against the wooden
floor and her face was alight with mischief. Samuel peered behind
her, expecting to see her followed by a band of pirates, or at the
very least a string of prancing ponies.

“I’m sorry I took so long.” Her skirts danced
around her as she moved.

“That’s all right. You are worth waiting for,
isn’t she?” Jedidiah looked at Samuel for confirmation.

“Indeed, she is.” Samuel smiled at Molly to
see how she took his hearty declaration. With aplomb. That’s how
she took it. He would have been disappointed by anything else.

Molly moved toward the piano, gliding across
the room directly in the path of moonlight so that she and her
dress appeared to be liquid.

“Is everybody ready for the show, Daddy?”

Jedidiah beamed and escorted Glory Ethel to
the large wing chair beside the piano. Then he seated himself on
the piano bench and ran his fingers lightly over the keys.

Samuel didn’t know much about music, but he
did know enough to recognize a masterful touch. The man had
talent.

But the person who riveted his attention was
Molly. She was leaning against the piano now, her hip pressed
against the gleaming wood. Everything except the woman at the piano
vanished from Samuel’s mind. Moonlight shimmered over her, turning
her skin and hair to liquid gold. Lamplight burnished the rich wood
so that the piano seemed to flow into and blend with Molly’s
dress.

Woman and instrument were one. The heavy jazz
beat of the music increased, and Molly started singing.

Samuel had never heard anything like it. Her
voice was a throaty, bluesy whisper, and she was promising to make
a saint turn into a sinner. He didn’t doubt it for a minute. He was
on the verge of sinning himself.

He called on every resource to combat this
strange and disturbing attraction. He told himself it was only a
game they were playing. Still, his desire rose like a phoenix from
the ashes of his harsh and bitter past. He blamed it on the
moonlight, he blamed it on the music, he blamed it on fatigue.

The tempo of the song increased and so did
his heartbeat. Molly was promising to be a naughty baby, and he
longed for it. He leaned heavily against the mantel, more for
support than anything else. Molly’s voice drugged him. The room
seemed to spin away and he imagined the two of them together, legs
entangled as the silvery dress spread underneath them.

Jazz flowed around him and through him, and
from a distance, Molly’s voice drifted to him.

He felt the solid reality of the mantel.
Molly was still beside the piano singing and he was still standing
in front of the fireplace. To find himself there came as a shock.
His fantasy had been so real he could almost taste her lips.

He wiped his face and tried to concentrate.
There was a musical interlude, and thankfully her sultry voice
stopped. But then, to his amazement, she danced across the floor,
her shoes marking a sassy rhythm on the polished wood. He suddenly
realized that that’s why she had disappeared and why she had made
such a noise when she had come back: she was wearing tap-dancing
shoes.

Jedidiah segued into another song, and Molly
stopped dancing and started singing again. This time Samuel
recognized the song—”Embraceable You.” He’d once dated a woman who
had been fond of singing that song—badly, as he remembered. Not
like Molly. Not at all like Molly.

The husky voice set him on fire again, but he
clung to the mantel and to his sanity—barely. When she sang in that
suggestive voice that she wanted her arms about him, he had to
clench his hands into fists and ram them into his pockets to keep
from obliging.

Finally he became aware that the music had
stopped.

Around him there were vague movements and
sounds—Jedidiah inviting his mother for a moonlight stroll, and
Glory Ethel accepting. But he was lost in song—the remembered
melody vibrating through his body and clouding his mind.

Suddenly he felt the swish of gossamer skirts
against his knees.

“Daddy wanted me to sing.”

“You do it beautifully.”

“Thank you.”

Molly felt the tension flowing from him, and
her body came alive under his intense scrutiny. She felt both taut
and loose at the same time. Part of her was melting and part of her
was so tightly wound she wanted to scream. He was a handsome man;
virile, desirable. But there was something deadly about him,
too.

She backed away from him. He cocked an
eyebrow.

“What’s the matter, Molly. Afraid?”

“No. Is there any reason I should be?”

He was silent for so long, merely staring at
her, that she wet her dry lips with her tongue. Finally he reached
out, ever so slowly. She felt the whisper touch against her cheek,
the lightest brushing of fingertips against her skin. And then he
withdrew the hand.

“I’m a man. And I’m not accustomed to turning
down such blatant invitations.”

She didn’t trust herself to speak.

“The song, Molly. You practically invited me
to make love to you. Don’t you know how dangerous that is?”

She resisted an urge to put her hand over her
racing heart. “It wasn’t an invitation.”

“What was it, then?”

“Do you really want to know the truth?”

“It would be refreshing to hear the
truth.”

“Music, dance, drama, painting—Daddy loves
all the arts.” Molly moved toward the wing chair beside the piano
as she talked. She felt a restless need to be moving; but more than
that, she felt a need to put some distance between herself and
Samuel. There was a connection between them; she could feel the
tug. And connections were dangerous. She sat in the chair, tucking
her feet up and settling her skirt over her legs. “And he made sure
that I loved them, too. I was taking voice lessons before I could
read. He had visions that I would be one of the great
singers—another Mariah Carey. The closest I ever came to singing
fame was winning the Jersey Queen contest.”

“Jersey Queen? As in New Jersey?”

“No. As in cows, Jersey cows.” She saw his
shoulders shake. “Go ahead. You can laugh. We thought it was pretty
darned funny ourselves. And it was a convenient way to win a
scholarship. I was eighteen, and I headed abroad to study.”

She searched his face, and thankfully saw
nothing except genuine interest.

“I sang and danced to that song. It’s been
Daddy’s favorite ever since, and he takes great pride in having me
repeat my Miss Jersey performance. I haven’t the heart to turn him
down.”

Samuel was drawn into her story. He pictured
Molly at eighteen, singing that torch song. Had she been as
beautiful then as she was now? And as deadly?

He drew a ragged breath. In the last few
minutes he’d seen exactly how much he was his father’s son. It had
been a flashy woman who had enticed his father, who had made him
give up a wife and two children and the respect of an entire town.
Samuel would do whatever it took to keep from being another Taylor
Adams.

He hardened his heart and his voice. “Does
the song have a name?”

“
Naughty Baby
.”

“It fits.”

There it was again, she thought. That remote,
cold look that made her want to shake him.

“You don’t approve of me, do you,
Samuel?”

“Quite frankly, no.”

“Is it the dress?” She lifted the hem of her
skirt and let it float back around her. “The jewelry?” She touched
the baubles at her neck. “The tap-dancing shoes?” She stood up and
did a quick staccato rhythm on the hardwood floor.

He arched one eyebrow in that sophisticated
way he had. Molly felt a surge of anger. This arrogant man, this
hell-bent-for-leather
bossy
banker, was ripe for a lesson.
And she was going to give it to him, even if he was Bea’s brother.
She’d worry about the consequences tomorrow.

Using her best model’s gliding walk, she
swayed across the room toward him, very much aware of what the
moonlight did to her skin and hair and of the enticing way she made
her skirt swirl around her legs. She hoped his throat was as dry as
ashes from last year’s fire.

She didn’t stop until she was so close she
could see the glowing center of his blacker-than-midnight eyes.

“Or is it this, Samuel?” She looped her arms
quickly around his neck and tangled her hands in his hair. Making
her voice a seductive purr, she leaned closer. “Am I too much woman
for you to handle?”

“You think that, do you?” His voice was low
and dangerous, and it sent shivers up her spine.

“Yes.” Her smile was inviting and wicked.
“You act like a man on the run.”

He reacted—not in quick anger, but with slow,
sure deliberation. His right hand cupped her cheek, resting there
for a small eternity before gliding back into her hair. She felt
her scalp tingle as he raked through her heavy tresses and let them
drift slowly through his fingers.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to; his eyes
said it all. Anger and passion burned there; and something else,
something so deep, so mysterious, that Molly felt all the breath
leave her body.

With his free hand he pulled her hard against
his hips. In a quick burst of hindsight she wondered if she had
pushed him too far. He tightened his hold and slowly lowered his
head.

She felt his warm breath against her cheek,
smelled the clean masculine scent of him, heard his deep intake of
air. And then his lips were on hers. There was no tenderness in the
kiss, no genuine feeling, no warmth, no great desire. It was the
kiss of an experienced man, an expert; a knowing kiss performed
with all the artfulness of a master deceiver.

In spite of that, she let herself go,
straining close and enjoying the kiss.

Samuel’s lips moved over hers, coaxing,
demanding, sensual, and he felt the full voltage of her response.
Danger signals clanged in his head. Pulling back, he gazed down at
her. She was flushed and lovely, and he discovered that he was more
vulnerable than he had thought.

It was an entire minute before he could
speak.

“I never let a challenge go unanswered.”

“Neither do I, Samuel.” She backed away and
leaned against the mantel. “Just remember this: you were the one
who kissed me.”

“I wasn’t kissing you, Molly. I was taming
you. There’s a difference.”

“I suppose a man of your vast experience has
a little black book of excuses that cover a multitude of sins.”

“A man of my experience knows how to give a
woman what she wants. But beware who you entice, Molly. Not all men
will kiss and retreat. If you behave that way, you’re asking for
trouble.”

“I wasn’t enticing you. I was merely teaching
you a lesson.”

“You’ve missed your calling. You make a
delightful teacher.”

“You’re laughing, and this is no laughing
matter.”

“You’re absolutely right.” He ran his hand
over his face as if he were wiping away his grin. “Tell me, Molly,
what was that lesson you taught me?”

“I was trying to teach you that you’ll always
find the things you expect. Look for the worst, and that’s what
you’ll get.”

“You don’t have to rationalize your behavior
for me. You’ve wanted to be kissed from the minute I walked through
your door tonight. And I obliged.”

Color blazed in her cheeks. “I have not!”

“That dress, those teasing, flirty looks,
that provocative song. I’m thirty-two years old. There isn’t much I
haven’t seen or done.”

“If you’re trying to tell me you’re jaded,
don’t bother. Your kiss already said that.”

He took her swiftly this time—without
fanfare, without warning and without mercy. His mouth was hard and
punishing.

The air left her lungs and the starch left
her knees. She clung to his shoulders for support. A part of her
battled against him, and another part surrendered. It was a
dangerous game she was playing, and she knew it.

When he finally released her, he stepped back
as casually as if he’d just returned from the corner convenience
store with a loaf of bread.

“You like to play games, don’t you,
Molly?”

“Yes.” She longed to press her hands to her
hot cheeks, but she wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

He put his hand into his coat pocket for his
pipe, and then he remembered that he’d given up smoking last year
when his blood pressure had started creeping up. He’d have to face
Molly without a crutch.

“Then be warned. I don’t play anybody’s game.
I live by my own rules.”