Not Even for Love (2 page)

“Oh… oh, yes. I’ll be… Just a moment…”

She fairly flew across the room, switched on the light in the stairwell, and scrambled up the stairs as if the devil were after her. She grabbed a towel off the nearest bar in the bathroom, realized it was the one she had used after her shower, tossed it onto the floor, muttering self-deprecations about her own stupidity, and reached into the linen closet for a clean towel. As a precaution, she picked up two.

As she plunged down the stairs, she caught herself up, consciously took three deep breaths, and then descended at a more careful, reasonable pace. What was wrong with her?

He was standing exactly as he had been, though his eyes were busy scanning the shelves near him. He tilted his head to read a book title, and Jordan noticed the rainwater running in silver rivulets down his neck into the collar of his shirt.

“I brought two. You look as if you may need them,” she said, extending him one of the towels.

“Thanks,” he said succinctly before he buried his face in the absorbent terry cloth. He held his head still for several seconds before he raked the towel over his dark unruly hair and then around his neck, whisking quickly past the deep triangle where his shirt was open. The thick hair on his chest was curled damply. Jordan quickly averted her eyes.

He looked down at the ever-widening pool at his feet. “You’re going to have a helluva mess on your floor. I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right. It will mop up. Who—”

“Hell, I’m sorry again. I’m Reeves Grant.” He stuck out his hand and Jordan prevented herself just in time from jumping away from it. For some unknown reason, it seemed terribly risky to touch him, even in a friendly handshake. She didn’t know what threat touching him posed; she only knew physical contact with him would be dangerous.

And it was. She had swallowed the unreasonable caution and taken his proffered hand. The moment his fingers squeezed around hers, the muscles around her heart constricted similarly, and for an instant she didn’t think she would be able to breathe again. However, to her vast relief, her involuntary brain impulses took over, and she sucked in enough breath to murmur, “Jordan Hadlock.” Though he seemed reluctant to release it, she pulled her tingling hand out of his grasp.

“Thank you for letting me in,” he said.

“What are you doing out on a night like this? Were you looking for me for some reason?”

He smiled ruefully. “No. I wish I could say it was that simple. I arrived this afternoon—dusk really. I’ve never been to Lucerne and wanted to scout around before I checked into a room. I dismissed the cab, walked along the lake shore for a while, had a bite to eat, and then started walking through the old town. The storm came up and I got hopelessly lost.” He grinned at her winningly, boyishly, abashedly, and she laughed.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s easy to get lost if you don’t know your way around the old town.”

“Yes, but I’m a jaded traveler. I’ve been all over the world and am reputed to ‘know my way around.’ You won’t let it get out that I blew my reputation tonight, will you?” he whispered conspiratorially.

“I promise,” she echoed his hushed tones. Then she asked, “What do you do that takes you all over the world, Mr. Grant?”

“I’m a photojournalist. Free-lance mostly. Sometimes I team up with one of the news services if one of their own men is unavailable.”

Her eyes opened wide in realization. “Reeves Grant. Are you ‘R. Grant’?” He nodded. “I see your photographs often. I read a lot of magazines.” She smiled as she indicated the shelves with a sweeping hand. “Your work must be fascinating,” she said.

He shrugged modestly. “Well, it pays the rent. Or it would if I had an address. I live in hotels most of the time,” he said. “Anyway, I can’t tell you what a godsend your store was. I’ve been wandering around out there in this rain for half an hour and then I saw your lights on. I couldn’t believe the sign on the door. An English newsstand! A beacon on a dark night, the lighthouse amidst the storm,” he said dramatically, and Jordan laughed again.

“Well, hardly that impressive,” she said, smiling. “But I’m glad I was handy.”

“Do you have a telephone? And can you recommend a hotel before I completely ruin your floor?”

“Yes to both.” Turning to the counter with the old-fashioned cash register on it, she pulled a telephone from beneath it along with a well-used brochure. “Which hotel do you prefer? Any along the shore of the lake are excellent, if your budget—”

“I’m on an expense account,” he said, grinning. “You choose.”

“All right.” She placed the receiver to her ear and then groaned, “Oh, no!”

“What’s the matter?”

“The telephone is dead. I’m sorry. Sometimes when we have a bad storm …” Her voice trailed off as she looked at him mournfully.

He only shrugged again. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll find a room if you can direct me out of here.”

“But the rain,” she protested. “Why don’t you stay a while longer?” The words surprised her own ears and his brows quirked again in amusement. Covering her embarrassment, she hastened to add, “It may stop soon.”

He looked out the window at the storm, which was still raging. If anything, the thunder and lightning seemed to be increasing in ferocity.

“I’m no martyr,” he admitted. “I’ll stay awhile. Am I keeping you from anything?”

“No—I was only shelving some books.” She gestured toward the ladder.

“Then I insist on helping while I’m here.”

“No, it can wait. I—”

“I owe it to you,” he said. “That is, if you don’t mind my wet clothes.”

She did, but not in the way he suspected. The fine fabric of his blue shirt was still damp and clung to the ridges of muscle and bone on his torso. His jeans, tight to begin with, were molded in much the same way to narrow hips and long, lean thighs.

“No,” she said shakily. “I’m not exactly dressed for company either.” Suddenly, and for the first time, she was made aware of her appearance. After she had closed the shop, she had eaten a light dinner, showered, and donned her most comfortable pair of slacks and ribbed knit cotton sweater. She had drawn her hair back in a haphazard ponytail and secured it with a tortoiseshell clasp. Her feet were bare. And she was wearing no bra—a fact made crucial by the green eyes that traveled down her trim body. As if being alerted of his scrutiny, Jordan felt her nipples begin to pout beneath the soft pink cotton and she whirled away in alarm, willing them to return to their relaxed state.

Why wasn’t she wearing one of her functional skirts or business suits? Her homey clothes only made this bizarre situation seem more intimate than circumstances warranted.

But the intimacy was there with a reality that bordered on tangibility. Already she felt a shiver of anticipation each time she looked at Reeves Grant. Anticipation of what? The whole thing was becoming absurd, and she was sure the chaos existed only in her mind.
He
wasn’t aware of it.

Indeed, when she looked back at him he was kneeling down with the damp towel, mopping up the puddle he had made. “Please don’t bother with that,” she said as she ascended the ladder with an armload of books.

“I think my clothes have dried somewhat, and if I get this water up, I won’t feel so guilty about invading your store. Do you live here?” he asked abruptly.

She was stunned for a moment and suddenly wary. Then she remembered getting the towels. And with her casual appearance, of course, he would deduce that she lived here.

“Yes,” she answered. “Upstairs there is a small apartment. I’ve been here for three years.”

“Three years?” He seemed shocked. “You’re an American.”

It wasn’t a question, but she replied as if it had been. “Yes. I’m from the Midwest. Three years ago I found myself at loose ends and went to London. Business associates of my father helped me get this job. There is a chain of these English newsstands throughout Europe, usually in smaller towns where American and British newspapers are harder to find. We, of course, cater mostly to English-speaking tourists.”

“What happened three years ago to make you feel at loose ends?” It was as though he had heard nothing else, but had homed in on the one point in her narrative that she wished he had overlooked. She was tempted to tell him that it was none of his business and dismiss the subject immediately.

However, looking down at him from her place on the ladder, she saw the green eyes staring up at her, demanding the truth. One strong hand, with fingers sensitive enough to handle the delicate intricacies of his cameras, was resting next to her bare foot on the rung of the ladder.

She pulled her eyes away from his as she mumbled, “My husband died.” Her shaking hands busied themselves with the books she was lining up along the top shelf. It was taking much more time than should be necessary to get them just right.

“What are you putting up there?” he asked, breaking a silence that was stretching dangerously long.

“Philosophy and religion,” she said. “The current bestsellers go on the bottom shelves. The spicier the book, the lower the shelf.” She looked down at him and smiled impishly.

He laughed. “Good merchandising,” he said. “Here. This is all.” He handed up the last of the books and she leaned down to take them.

At that moment another crack of lightning struck close to the small shop and after a sizzling explosion at each fixture the lights went out.

“Jordan!” She had momentarily lost her balance, but his hands came up around her waist to steady her on the ladder. “Are you okay?” he asked in the sudden darkness.

“Yes,” she answered breathlessly. His hands were warm through the thin cotton of her sweater. Cautiously, her feet found the now invisible rungs and she eased her way down until she had gained the floor. “I’m afraid your first impressions of Lucerne will be bad ones,” she said tremulously. His hands were still firm around her waist.

“I’d say my first impressions have been delightful.” His voice was vibrant and its intensity startled her. His hands moved up almost imperceptibly until they spanned her rib cage.

“I’ll get some candles,” she said shakily. “This happens frequently, you see.” She stepped away from him quickly. “I’ll be right back.”

“Oh, no. I’m afraid of the dark,” he said. “I’m coming with you.” He hooked a thumb into a belt loop on her side, which placed his fist at the swell of her hip. “Lead the way.”

She felt her way around the shelves and racks, stumbling in the dark and ever aware of the figure looming close behind her, bumping into her every few steps.

“We have to turn right up the stairwell. It’s rather tight.”

“I’m right behind you,” he said, and placed his other hand on the opposite side of her waist.

It took them several minutes to navigate the dark stairs, for in the narrow confines of the stairwell even the lightning flashes didn’t provide them with any illumination.

“Here we are,” she said with relief when they reached the second floor. She wasn’t afraid of the darkness, or of the storm, or of being left without electricity. She was terrified of the sensations this man, and his touch, aroused in her. “Wait here. The candles are in the kitchen.”

“Hurry,” he said.

She laughed and tripped toward the drawer where she knew she would find a serviceable candle and matches. They were exactly where they should be, but she didn’t seem to be capable of striking the match. Her hands were trembling and totally useless.

“Damn!” she cursed under her breath.

“What’s the matter?” He spoke from directly behind her. She hadn’t heard his approach and dropped the matchbox in surprise.

“Did I frighten you?” he asked solicitously.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right. I can’t seem to get the match struck.” It seemed imperative that some kind of light banish this darkness. It was too complete, too encapsulating, too intimate. His nearness was making her extremely nervous and edgy.

He took up the matchbox from where she had dropped it on the countertop. With one swipe across the bottom of the box the match flared to life.

“Thank you,” she murmured as she lifted the candle toward the small flame. She looked up at him and found his face unnecessarily close to hers.

“You’re welcome,” he answered. He leaned down slightly and she was held in breathless suspension when she thought he was about to kiss her. Instead, he blew softly on the match and it went out, the smoke waiting between their faces.

Was it relief or disappointment she felt? Hurriedly she turned away from him and moved toward the door that connected the tiny kitchen to the living room.

“I have other candles in here,” she said by way of explanation. Quickly, with the candle providing a small circle of light, she traversed the living room, stopping periodically to ignite a scented candle. Soon the room was bathed in a soft, fragrant glow.

“When you said you had some candles, you meant it,” he teased from the door of the kitchen when a dozen or more candles had been lit.

“They’re really for aesthetic purposes, but as you can see, sometimes they’re functional as well.”

She stood awkwardly, bare feet chastely together, hands self-consciously clasped in front of her. What now? “Would you like some coffee?” she asked.

“The electricity?”

“I have a gas stove.”

“Great. That sounds good.”

She walked toward him, taking one of the larger candles in its brass holder with her. He moved aside and she brushed past him into the kitchen.

“Don’t feel like you have to entertain me,” he said as she filled a percolator with water, “but I don’t relish roaming around that maze out there without even the benefit of streetlights.”

She smiled over her shoulder as she spooned coffee into the metal basket. “What kind of American would I be to deny aid and comfort to a fellow countryman? Where are you from, Reeves?” Reeves? Not Mr. Grant?

“I grew up in California. Went to UCLA. Started working professionally as a photographer during college.” She had lit the stove and placed the percolator on the burner. “Say, listen, would I be presuming too much if I changed clothes? I’m still rather soggy.”