Mountain Laurel (15 page)

"No. And Dad wouldn't like it."

"Dad wouldn't like it?" Laurel repeated. "Let me ask you something, young lady." She was suddenly so irritated she didn't notice she'd lapsed into using her listen-to-me-I'm-your-mother voice. "Where was all this conscientious judgment when I was walking the floor waiting for you to come home, worried to death, hoping Mom and Dad didn't wake up?"

She threw the brush down and it skittered across the counter.

Hearing the wheels of Michael's truck crunch on the gravel drive, Laurel pushed past Ginny. She grabbed her coat.

"Don't you ask me what time I'll be in. I don't know." She yanked open the front door and turned back to Ginny. "But don't wait up for me!" Slamming the door, Laurel stomped down the steps.

The truck barely came to a stop before Laurel snatched the door open and climbed in beside Michael to sit in fuming silence.

"I sure hope it wasn't something I said."

In no mood for teasing, Laurel ignored him. The seatbelt strap gave her fits, but when she'd finally fastened it, she realized he hadn't yet put his truck into reverse.

Finally, he murmured, "My grandmother would be very disappointed."

"What?" She glanced over at him, thrown off guard.

"It was my grandmother's opinion that a gentleman called for his date at her door."

His silliness lightened her mood and she quickly found it contagious. "So your grandmother was an opinionated lady, huh?" She sighed and released the tension from her body. "It's her."

"Ah, the infamous baby sister." He nodded in understanding.

"She's in there sulking." Laurel shook her head. "You won't believe what she said. She wanted to come with us. She wanted to know how late I would be. She complained that I'd been out with you three nights in a row. She said Dad wouldn't like it."

"Wouldn't like what?"

"I'm not sure. I didn't give her much time to explain." She grinned. "What I did give her was a piece of my mind. Then I walked out."

"That's good."

"I thought so. It felt great."

Michael turned the truck around and pulled onto the main road.

"Well, I think it may be working."

Laurel was confused. "What do you mean?"

"The proverbial shoe is now on the other foot. Due to my extraordinary acting, Ginny believes that I'm lost in my lust for you. And you've done a beautiful job of making her see you enjoy it." He shrugged. "But then, what woman wouldn't?"

Laurel looked away, covering her face with one hand. "Give me a break," she muttered.

"Seriously, though, I think it'll be good for her to be the one worrying for a change. She may not understand it, or like it for that matter, but we're opening her eyes. We're helping her to see what it's like to be on the other side of things; to be the one who's worrying. And that's something to feel good about."

He steered the truck into a parking spot and turned off the engine.

"The thing for you to do," he said, placing his hand on her knee, "is forget all about it. Relax and have a good time."

The warm, almost possessive, pressure of his hand felt good. Delightful tingles radiated upward, and like a fast-growing vine, the hot shoots traveled toward the place where her pulse had now begun to pound. She shivered involuntarily.

He patted her knee. "There's no need to act tonight, no need to worry about who's watching."

That quick little pat and his confession of relief thoroughly snuffed out her budding desire. What replaced it was acute annoyance. She was irritated by the longing that flared up inside her at his slightest touch. And she was also testy about having to be reminded that this was all a game, a game Michael was glad not to have to play tonight.

Why did this keep happening, over and over? Why couldn't she control her emotions? Michael seemed to have no problem at all doing it. Looking up at the night sky, his words rang through her head:
let Ginny worry, we're opening her eyes, we're helping Ginny
.

Why did she keep forgetting the goal?

"Come on," Michael said, turning to walk toward the group of people gathering around a large bonfire.

Watching his lithe movements, she sighed and knew that she'd have to be content to take a time-out from game playing. The trouble was, she wasn't at all certain she was acting.

The whole evening was an emotional disaster. Laurel had to constantly fight the depression that threatened to engulf her.

It wasn't the people. The campers were friendly and convivial. And it wasn't the location. The bonfire crackled and hissed, and the stars glittered brightly overhead.

But Laurel was confused, and she sure wasn't having fun. She was baffled by Michael's attitude toward her. He ignored her most of the night, spending his time circulating from one group of visitors to the next, making sure everyone felt welcome and included.

Everyone, that is, except Laurel. The only time he'd spent with her had been after a young man had sat down next to her and started a conversation. Laurel glanced up to see Michael looming over them, silent, almost brooding. He had stood there, unmoving, until the young man made an awkward excuse and moved away. When she'd stood up to ask Michael if he was okay he'd turned and joined another group, leaving her even more bewildered than before.

He's working
, she kept reminding herself. It's his job to entertain these people. But as she stared into the fire, she couldn't shrug off the feeling that he was avoiding her.

She looked up when she heard him ask everyone to find a comfortable spot. As people were finding their seats, he came over and sat down next to her.

"You warm enough?" he asked her.

She nodded and watched him turn his head to look over the group. Michael smoothed his palms together, and then he began to speak. He recounted a time when white settlers first moved into the area, when Indians roamed the land; a time when black bears were plentiful, so plentiful that a man could hunt and shoot five or more in a single day—a practice that, if done today, would extinguish the bears from the face of the earth in less than a week.

He told them of the river, the one so close to the mighty, eastward-flowing Potomac, but because it flows toward the Ohio, the native people referred to it as Youghiogheny, meaning, 'flowing in the contrary direction.'

The Europeans who settled in Western Maryland were hearty, hardworking people, and Michael recounted tales of half a dozen locals who had made a name for themselves in one way or another.

Her favorite story was the one about Negro Mountain and how it was named for a man who accompanied Colonel Cresap on an expedition. Nemesis, named for his great strength, was the only member of the party killed. An eerie silence fell over the group when Michael told them that legend said the black man had predicted his death beforehand.

Laurel's eyes darted over the solemn faces and came back to rest on Michael's profile. For nearly an hour he held the group spellbound. To break the tension, he slapped his thigh and announced that it was time to roast marshmallows. Chuckles and low, murmuring conversation floated into the night as people searched through the stacks of precut sticks for the perfect branch.

When Michael looked over at her, firelight danced in his eyes. Although he hadn't moved an inch, she somehow felt closer to him.

"So, what do you think?" he asked.

"You were wonderful. They loved it."

He stood and pulled her up in front of him.

"What about you?" His voice was like silk. "Did you love it?"

"I hung onto your every word." She reached up, smoothing one hand over his upper arm. Time seemed to slow down, and she yearned for him to lean over and kiss her. But his hands fell to his sides and he stepped away from her.

"If we're going to toast marshmallows," he said, "we'll need a couple of roasting sticks."

Watching him stalk off, she muttered, "Why did you
do
that?"

She shouldn't have touched him; she was only embarrassing them both. Sitting down again on the hard log, Laurel swore to herself to keep a tighter grip on herself.

Michael clenched his jaw so tight he feared it might snap in two. Why couldn't he keep his hands to himself?

He'd purposefully avoided her all evening. Except, of course, for the few seconds it took to stare down that Romeo who had come sniffing around bothering her.

He'd stayed away because he was working. He shook his head ruefully. He had started out using that excuse, but that wasn't the real reason.

No acting tonight, he'd told her. And he'd kept his distance hoping she'd make a move toward him, give him some sign that she was interested in him as a man. But she hadn't. He scowled. So she wasn't.

Just help the woman out with her problem and leave it at that
, he argued to himself. Frustration had him snatching two branches off the pile and scattering the rest into a mess he knew would have to be picked up before he left the gathering tonight.
And above all,
he railed,
control yourself!

The ride home was uncomfortable, Laurel knew, for both of them. Conversation was forced, and the last half mile was spent in silence. When they pulled up in front of the cabin, no lights shone in the windows.

"You don't have to get out, Michael. Ginny's either out or sleeping. I have a key in hand." She dangled her key ring as proof. "I can make it from here." She moved to open the door, but his words stopped her.

"But you forgot about my grandmother."

"Your grandmother?" she asked, turning toward him.

"My grandmother," he repeated. "She'd be upset if I didn't—"

"Walk your date to the door," she finished, smiling at him in the dim light thrown by the dashboard. "I remember."

But the smile vanished from her face as they walked toward the porch. She stopped before reaching the steps.

"Look, Michael." She stood in front of him, blocking his way. "We don't have to do this again—"

He cut her off by reaching out and dragging her to him. Wrapping his arms around her, he held on tightly, as if she might get away.

"Michael!" Her arms were pinned between them.

"Shh. The curtain's pulled back," he murmured. "Ginny's watching."

He lips descended on hers in one swift movement. Taken by surprise, she stood there, unresponsive. But the warm moist pressure of his mouth moving on hers was irresistible. She melted against him. Pulling her arms from where they were nestled, she hugged him to her.

All thoughts of holding back her desire vanished as she parted her lips, welcoming his deepening kiss. He held her tightly, but still it wasn't tight enough. Passion burned inside her like a hot flame and she moaned in unadulterated pleasure.

The sound died on her lips when he held her away from him. She looked up and clearly saw the question blazing in his eyes.

The fiery heat of embarrassment raged inside her and she looked away. How could she shame herself so deeply? How could her body betray her so completely?

Slamming a lid on her feelings, Laurel tried hard to compose herself, filling her mind with an icy calmness. Raising hooded eyes, she saw a deep frown creasing Michael's forehead.

"Well," she said in a soft, curt murmur, a tight smile firmly in place, "if that doesn't show her, I don't know what will."

His eyebrows drew even closer together and the air in his body left him in a rush. He dropped his hands to his sides and then stuffed them into the pockets of his trousers.

"I'll call you." He turned and walked away from her.

Laurel climbed up the stone steps, empty desolation roaming the cavern of her chest.
This can't go on
, she thought. She was bound to humiliate both of them before long.

She stopped before she unlocked the door, thoughts of Ginny crowding into her head. Would her sister still be angry and sulking, or would she giddily ask to know everything about tonight? Turning to look at the truck still sitting in the drive, Laurel sighed. Whatever mood her sister was in didn't matter. Laurel wasn't in the mood to deal with Ginny at all.