Moonlight and Shadows (11 page)

He dutifully repeated the line. “AC or DC,
but that’s no sentence, teach.”

“Hmm?” She jerked her head up and her gaze
collided with his sexy grin.

“No verb.”

“Oh. Of course.” He had the most interesting
mouth, she mused, and she liked the way it curved higher on one
side when he smiled. She liked remembering how it had felt to have
his mouth on hers. She’d liked everything about his kiss . . . the
heat, the taste, the sensation he’d aroused deep in her breast. She
slowly lifted her gaze to meet his and swallowed.

Jack knew an invitation when he saw one, and
invitation was melting in her brown eyes. Color raced across her
cheeks, flushing her skin rose-petal pink. If he had thought before
he acted, he might have decided not to kiss her, because kissing
her wasn’t likely to lead where he’d want to go. But he was only a
man—and damn glad of it.

He raised his hand to her face and brushed
his thumb across her skin from the corner of her mouth to below her
cheekbone. As her eyes drifted closed, he kept his hand moving,
until his fingers tunneled through the heavy richness of her ebony
curls and his palm cupped the nape of her neck. Then, before he
lowered his mouth to hers, he let his gaze roam down her silky
throat to where she’d unbuttoned the two buttons, and he wished
she’d freed two more.

He made no preliminary passes when he kissed
her. He covered her mouth with his, and the slow stroke of his
tongue across her lips granted him immediate access to her honeyed
sweetness. Her response was instantaneous, and arousal raced
between them like a flash fire.

Welding from A to Z and Beyond
fell
to the floor with an unheeded clunk. He wanted to touch her. He
wanted to lower her to the couch and press into her. He thought
they’d gotten kissing down to a fever pitch and it was time to move
on. She was doing things with her mouth he never wanted to stop,
not when they seemed to pull on his loins. She was sweet, so sweet,
and he wanted all of her. He slid his other hand up to her breast
and groaned deep in his throat.

Shimmering waves of excitement flooded
through Lila at that sound and his caress. Oh, yes, Jack definitely
had a way about him, a way of making her feel her power as a woman,
and it turned her senses to putty. The gentle, insistent strength
of him, his easy, seductive aggression, became more and more
irresistible with each track of his mouth over hers, with each—

“Lila? Lila, honey? Are you home?”

Her mother? In the kitchen? At eight-thirty
on a Saturday night?

“I knocked, honey, but you didn’t answer, so
I let myself in. I brought food.” Cupboard doors opened and
closed.

“My . . . my mother,” she gasped, but he
captured her mouth again, and she sank under the spell of yet one
more kiss.

“I’m putting soup in the freezer and
spaghetti sauce in the refrigerator to thaw. Don’t worry. I brought
some pasta too.”

Her mother was in the kitchen, and she was
in the living room kissing the living daylights out of Jack Hudson
and enjoying every forbidden second, every single sensation.

“Whose truck is that in the driveway, Lila?”
a masculine voice asked, and Lila froze.

Her father? In the kitchen? With her mother?
“My . . . my father,” she muttered against Jack’s mouth.

Now, deep in the heart of every male member
of the species is a special spot saved for the fear and respect of
fathers of daughters, especially fear and respect of fathers of
daughters they’re kissing,
especially
if in their hearts and
minds they’re fast moving far beyond the kissing stage.

“Your father?” he whispered, stealing more
kisses from the corner of her mouth, the curve of her cheek, and
the wonderful spot he’d found on the side of her neck, just below
her left ear, which seemed to drive her a little bit crazy.

“My sweater!” she exclaimed softly,
wondering how in the world he’d gotten her unbuttoned to the point
of revealing her bra. He nipped at her neck, and she moaned, her
fingers fumbling with the shiny black circles of plastic.

“Say hello to your dad,” he instructed her,
kissing her again and taking over the buttoning job.

“Hi, Dad!” she hollered breathlessly, and
thought if that didn’t bring him running, nothing would.

“Tell him we’re in the living room.”

“I—I can’t tell him that.”

“Tell him.” He pressed a kiss beneath her
collarbone and silently cursed parental timing.

Jack was undermining her breathing
faculties, Lila thought, let alone her speaking faculties, but she
managed to get the words out. “We’re in the living room!”

“We picked you up a trunk at an auction
today,” her father called back, still in the kitchen and mercifully
not charging into the living room. “Should I put it in the office?
Hey, this place is looking great. Didn’t I tell you Hudson would
make good on the job?”

Make good? Lila repeated silently. Her
father didn’t know the half of what Jack Hudson could make
good.

“Honey,” her mother added, “I’m putting the
canned jams in the cupboard and the refrigerator jams in the
refrigerator.”

“Thanks,” she whispered. She was buttoned.
Her hair was smoothed back into place. He’d stopped kissing her.
She felt absolutely bereft and she wondered why.

“You’re welcome.” Jack stood up and ran a
quick hand through his own hair before moving over to sit on the
hearth. She was going to be the death of him.

Approaching footsteps sent them both into
action, Lila picking up a book, and Jack putting another log on the
fire.

“Well, hey, Janie, look who’s here!” Lila’s
father spoke first. “I thought I recognized your truck, Jack. The
deck still looks great.”

“Glad to hear it, sir.” Jack extended his
hand for a hearty shake. He remembered the couple well, Kurt and
Janie Davis. Lila got her coloring from her father, a big,
dark-haired man in his late fifties with a perpetual smile and a
helluva handshake.

“We’re thinking about adding a gazebo in the
spring,” her mother said, and Jack knew exactly where Lila had
gotten her delicate bone structure and the sweet, breathless
quality in her voice. “Do you do gazebos?”

“Sure do. I even have a few designs of my
own. If you like, I can send you some pictures.”

“That would be lovely.” Janie turned to her
daughter. “What are you reading, dear?”

Lila glanced down at the book in her hands,
and for a fleeting second wondered if dyslexia was catching. She
didn’t recognize a single word. Her mother quickly cured her
momentary confusion.

“Maybe if you turned it around. I think I
recognize the cover.”

Lila blushed. She didn’t need to turn it
around. There were only two books in the living room, and
Welding from A to Z and Beyond
was still on the floor.

“
Night of the Hawk
,” her mother read,
tilting her honey-blond head far to one side. “I loved that book.
I’m so glad to see you’re doing a little recreational reading,
something relaxing. Although, if I recall correctly, this one is
more—exciting than relaxing.” She lifted the book out of her
daughter’s hand and turned it right side up. “Oh, my, yes,” she
murmured. “I remember this man.”

Lila’s blush deepened, but fortunately her
father and Jack were well into a conversation about redwood and
gazebos—a conversation Jack was destined to end the evening with.
After half an hour of two-by-fours and lattices, he conceded a
silent victory to Lila’s father. There was no getting rid of the
man, and he knew why. His daughter looked kissed.

Jack had done his best, both in kissing her
and in trying to disguise the fact, but even thirty minutes later
she still looked kissed and softly mussed. Her skin was flushed,
her mouth swollen, and most damning of all, he’d missed a button.
Her father wasn’t leaving, no way.

Jack kept up his end of the chitchat for
another fifteen minutes, holding out for a miracle before he
finally gave up. He extricated himself from the gazebo dream and
shook hands all around, holding on to Lila’s hand as he finished
his good-byes.

“Nice seeing you both again,” he said to her
parents. “Be sure to get in touch when you’re ready to start
building.” He took a step backward, pulling Lila with him toward
the kitchen and giving her father a look that said,
Okay, you
win, but I’m taking five minutes. Relax. Nothing can happen in five
minutes.
All the while he was wondering what he could fit into
five minutes of semi-privacy at her back door.

“I’m sorry about the lesson,” she said when
they were out of earshot and eyesight.

“We’ll
do better next time,” he said with a grin, slipping into his
jacket, then grasping her hands in his.

She didn’t resist when he placed her palms
on either side of his waist, or when he draped his arms over her
shoulders and drew her against his chest. She felt so right, so
good. He kissed the top of her head and tightened his arms around
her. He wished he were taking her home with him, home to where
there weren’t any mothers and fathers.

The way she held him made him think she
wished the same. Her cheek rested against his chest. Her arms had
slid around his waist.

“I’m falling in love with you,’ he murmured
against her hair, and even as he registered surprise at the words
coming out of his mouth, he rejoiced in the slight tightening of
her arms. He placed a kiss on her temple and felt her sigh. “I want
you, Lila.” His voice grew huskier. “Anytime, anyplace, anyway I
can get you. Call me.”

Anytime? Anyplace?

Lila thumped her pillow and threw herself
down on the bed. What kind of thing was that to say? And the bit
about falling in love. What did he mean by that?

She hit the pillow again. She was supposed
to be teaching him to read. He was supposed to be building her an
office. They were not supposed to end up in a breathtaking clinch
every time they were alone for more than three minutes.

They had something going. There was no
denying it, and it wasn’t a client-contractor relationship, or a
teacher-student relationship. It was a relationship-relationship,
the last thing on earth she’d been looking for in her life.

They’d had a date, complete with good-night
kiss. He’d taken her out to the fanciest restaurant in town. She’d
invited him in for coffee—with Irish cream no less—and they’d ended
up on the couch with her sweater partially unbuttoned.

She groaned and buried her head in her
much-molested pillow. What made Jack Hudson so damned irresistible?
His smile? His eyes? His body? She squeezed her eyes shut and
thought for a moment. He had a great body, which was not exactly
the revelation of the century, but there was more, much more, to
the man.

Looking at the facts, he seemed no more than
average. Brown hair, hazel eyes, six feet tall, self-employed
carpenter. The most unusual thing about him, his dyslexia, wasn’t
what she’d call an asset.

Yet the man remained special, and it came
from deep inside him. His offhand remarks made her laugh. His
kisses made her melt. The best thing about his great body wasn’t
how it looked, but how she felt when he held her in his arms. She
felt excitement, to be sure, but she also felt comfort. She didn’t
understand it. He didn’t read books, and his idea of a good time
was welding. What in the world would they do after making love?

Who cares? a little voice asked.

“I do,” she whispered. She wouldn’t allow
herself to make another mistake out of loneliness.

Sighing, she rolled onto her back and stared
at the ceiling. Everything had been so easy with Danny, so simple.
They’d met, fallen instantly in love in one of those classic “eyes
meeting across a crowded room” scenes, and been married inside of
two months. Everything had been perfect, until he’d died in a
stupid car crash.

It had taken her years to forgive him for
leaving her alone. She hadn’t thought it possible to love someone
and yet hate him, to be so angry and full of despair all at the
same time. Some nights she’d wanted him back just so she could yell
at him. Most nights she’d wanted him back just so she could hold
him and be held by him . . . held by him the way Jack had held her
that very night when he’d whispered he was falling in love.

It was impossible. Lust she could accept,
maybe. Affection and attraction were reasonable. But love was what
she’d had with Danny. Love was what she’d fooled herself into
believing she might have had a year earlier, before the dream had
been shattered at the Silver Bell Ball.

Lila knew she’d have to step back into the
man-woman stream sooner or later. She didn’t see herself alone for
the rest of her life. But her emotions and her pride still smarted
from the memories of the Silver Bell Ball.

The night had been magical, filled with
holiday spirit and good tidings. The man escorting her had been
classically handsome, exceptionally intelligent, wildly successful,
and, much to her disbelieving surprise, married. The wife,
understandably, had looked a little haggard by the time she’d
tracked her wayward spouse to the Washington Center, site of the
annual Silver Bell Ball, but then, she’d come a long way on a snowy
night, and Lila suspected she’d been drinking.

Three weeks of illusory bliss had come to a
screeching halt among all the glitter, dazzle, and silver
papier-mâché bells hanging in the lobby. Mrs. Robert Stanford, wife
of the distinguished engineer who’d been called in to consult on a
NASA project being researched at the university, wife of the
handsome, intelligent, successful, conniving, low-down jerk holding
Lila’s arm, had all but ripped Lila’s dress off, and this after
nearly doing the same to her face. It had been a mortifying debacle
of the highest order. Lila had never seen anything like it before,
nothing close to the cowardice displayed by her date, her “newfound
love,” nothing close to the shrieking harridan he’d married and
betrayed, nothing close to what the woman had done to her dress.
She’d thought clothes ripped like that only in the movies. At two
hundred and fifty dollars, she’d
expected more integrity in the seams.