Sealed with a Kiss (13 page)

The streetlamps backlit her hair casting a radiant auburn halo around the woman he loved. He loved the pale face and deep blue eyes, the hair that
was her glorious crown, the sultry voice that haunted his dreams and the confident woman who had evolved from the lonely little girl.

He was in love with Tara Elliott. He'd fumbled his way to this moment in time and he was helpless to change things. She would never forgive him when the lies were exposed.

“Well?” She waved both desserts under his nose. “I'm good either way but make up your mind before the yogurt melts.”

He accepted a vintage soda-shop cup and she took the loveseat beside his chair.

“Been out here long?” she queried with a casual air as she spooned cookies and cream into her mouth.

“A few minutes.” He grasped the spoon and dug in to his dessert.

“You should have joined us.” Tara appeared nonchalant, watching the foot traffic on the campus across the street.

“I did.” His spoon clinked on the cup as he enjoyed the treat and the way she fished for details.

“So, you were listening,” she stated.

“And thinking,” he added.

“Listening and thinking. That's good.” Her head bobbed up and down. “That's very good.”

“Could I get one of those workbooks you were talking about?” He might as well give her what she wanted or she'd never be satisfied.

“A Gospel-study workbook?” Her beautiful eyes widened. “Sure, and I have an extra study Bible I can loan to you if you need one.”

He dropped all casual pretence and set his cup on the flat chair arm. He leaned forward and laid his hand on her knee, covered as usual by black cotton trousers. “Thank you for inviting me. I'm sorry I didn't come inside, but I heard enough from out here to want to hear more. I'd appreciate the workbook and the Bible. I have a lot of work to do and I hope you'll be patient with me.”

She pressed a warm palm atop his fingers and squeezed. “I'm not the one you have to ask for patience, Sam. I felt called to make the Word and the group available to you and now that I've done my part, where you go from here is between you and God.”

“And where I have dinner Saturday night is between you and me.” He changed the subject.

“Is that so?” Her blue eyes flashed.

“Yes it is.” He made a show of unfolding the auction certificate he pulled from his hip pocket. “According to this, I am entitled to a private tour of Sycamore House Saturday evening to be followed by a gourmet dinner in the formal dining room, to be prepared, served and shared by the homeowner.”

“Let me see that.” She snatched the paper from his grip. “This doesn't say all that. It's a receipt for your charitable contribution.”

He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and pulled the paper closer. “No, check it out. Read the fine print.”

She leaned in to get a better view. “What fine print?”

As their faces came together over the page, his senses filled with her spicy scent. “Hmm,” he murmured. “My mistake.”

As the evening shadows fell across the porch in front of Bridges, Sam wanted desperately to kiss her. But he had too much to think about to confuse his senses further. Sam exhaled an unsteady breath. “Now, about that dinner.” He pretended to be calm.

His near loss of composure was music to her ears. She pushed to her feet and retrieved the abandoned dessert cups.

“Okay, if you insist.” She feigned resignation. “Saturday night, seven o'clock.” Before she crossed the threshold into the store, she cast him a wink and a sly smile. “Bring the extra helmet.”

R
ight on time, a familiar rumble crescendoed up the long drive on Sycamore. Tara scrubbed her teeth, plopped her toothbrush into the plastic cup, dabbed her mouth and practiced a demure smile. She fluttered her eyelashes, moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue and heaved a sigh at her ridiculous behavior.

“What is wrong with me?” she pleaded with the mirror above the sink. The deep blue eyes that stared back from the pale face gave her a “get real” glare. “Okay, so I can answer my own question. But what good is knowing I'm still in love with Sam when a commitment is the last thing he's interested in?”

She stepped back to admire the new sundress Lacey had sent over. The silky blue matched her eyes and it fit perfectly, ending in a soft swirl around her knees.

The doorbell chimed. Too self-conscious for a last peek, she ran a brush through loose curls without glancing at the mirror, stepped into new sandals and padded down the stairs. She stood before the door with a hand over her heart to slow the hammering. “It's only a casual evening,” she whispered as she smoothed her hands over the front of the new dress. “Yeah, right.”

She swept the heavy wooden door aside as Sam reached for the screen with his left hand. He let out a long, low wolf whistle as he presented her with a bouquet of familiar summer flowers, haphazardly bunched in his right fist.

“Oh, Sam, they're lovely.” She took the offering and stepped aside, ducking her head so he wouldn't see her pleasure at his very male reaction to her sundress.

“Then you're not mad at me for picking them?”

“You picked these out of
my
flower bed?” She turned and smacked her open palm against his solid bicep.

“Well—” he ducked a second swing “—nobody was enjoying them out there and I thought they'd be nice on your table.” He accompanied her into the kitchen where a mischievous smile spread across his face. “Great minds think alike,” he teased. A mound of clippings littered the tiled counter around a tall crystal vase holding a rainbow assortment of backyard blossoms.

“What
is
that smell?” His attention shifted as he sniffed, closing his eyes to savor the aroma.

“Eventually it will be beef Wellington in puffed pastry with steamed vegetables and hollandaise sauce. We have chocolate crème brûlée for dessert,” she proudly announced.

“Delicious.” He sniffed the air and moved nearer.

Goose bumps skittered across her bare shoulders. She shivered and backed away. “Oh, no you don't. We have an agenda for the evening and you're not going to distract me and make me burn this expensive dinner that I've worked on all day.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” He surveyed the kitchen, where she'd obviously been experimenting with one disastrous recipe after another.

“Well, I want you to get your money's worth.”

“Will you stop worrying about the money?” He turned, leaned his palms against the edge of the porcelain sink and surveyed the backyard through one of the tall kitchen windows.

“When did Miss Miriam put in the greenhouse?”

She stood beside him. “Almost five years ago. The woodwork already needs paint.”

“Let's go take a look.”

“You're not here to investigate my maintenance needs.”

“No, but I am here for a tour of the house and I'd like to start out back.”

Recognizing the tone that said his mind was
made up, she reached into the freezer and drew out two frosted mugs. “If you insist, let's take our drinks and sit in the gazebo.” Ice cubes clinked into the glasses and sweet tea gurgled to the rims. She plopped a sprig of mint on each and handed one to Sam. He gulped half his drink in a single swallow and rattled his ice for a refill.

“I presume that means you approve.” She smiled and poured.

“Of everything.”

She accepted the compliment with a nod and led the way through the kitchen door to the yard they both knew so well. They followed the brick pathway and stepped into the muggy confines of the greenhouse that had once sheltered a small but honorable collection of rare flowers.

“What was on these shelves?” Sam could see the automatic misters and spotlights set up for display.

“Grandmother's prizewinning orchids. I donated them to the horticulture department.”

“That was generous of you.”

She waved away his compliment. “It was either that or let them die from lack of attention. I have no patience or skill with growing things. Even the silk plants in my apartment are neglected and dusty.”

“Are you going to give up your place in New York?” he questioned. He seemed to study the systems installed to control the temperature and humidity of the nursery.

“Not right away.” She watched for his reaction to her plans. “I still haven't made the decision to leave The Heritage. If I stay on, I can afford to hire someone to manage Bridges and that'll create another job for somebody who might get laid off from the college.”

“What about Sycamore House?” He turned his smoky gaze to her. His scrutiny combined with the humidity in the greenhouse was suddenly unbearable. She pressed the icy glass to her cheek, stepped through the door and headed for the shady gazebo with Sam close behind.

“I should be able to make frequent visits.”

“But this place needs a constant caregiver. You're right about the trim needing a new coat.” He flicked at curling chips of paint on the latticework as they ducked into the shade and sank into comfortable cushions on wicker chairs. “I noticed the garden needs to be weeded and you'll have to put in a lot of new plants in the fall.”

Tara hadn't been aware of much concerning the house in the few months she'd been there. It was her home but with her constant flurry of work and fund-raising it had been little more than a place to shower and sleep. Sam was right. An old place needed constant care or it would fall apart before your eyes.

“I haven't had time to think this through.” She chewed her lip. “I'm not sure I could afford a live-in caretaker.”

“You could always bulldoze this place and put up something modern and low-maintenance instead.”

The tea in Tara's glass sloshed as she turned to see if Sam was teasing her. His eyes were serious, narrowed as he surveyed the large backyard.

“You have over three acres that could easily accommodate a pool and tennis court as long as you're updating the property.”

“I have no intention of bulldozing anything. I love this place. It's my home.”

His eyes darkened. “Then why did you abandon it?”

 

Tara's face had been flushed from the moment she'd opened the door and given him a gander at the new dress. Where her usual black garb served to deflect attention, this wisp of blue fabric begged to be appreciated.

The hothouse had intensified the blush he found so endearing and now his suggestion that she level the historic property had her cheeks in full bloom. Little did she know his heart hammered at the mention of her return to New York and he suspected he had some telltale color of his own beneath his dark tan.

He'd intended to keep the evening lighthearted but even the
possibility
of Tara returning to her life in New York had delivered a punch to his gut. It brought home the reality of the situation as nothing
else did. Sooner or later she'd find out about his holdings and when she did, she'd leave. It was only a matter of time before he lost the woman he loved.

Tara hung her head. She picked at the white wicker as she appeared to consider his question. He saw her chest rise and fall while she took in deep breaths. Her eyes closed for a few moments and he suspected she was praying.

Her head tilted up and the full force of her ocean-blue eyes washed over him. “The truth is I left because I was ashamed and angry over what happened to you.”

He held his palms outward to stop her but she continued.

“No, Sam, you need to let me say this.”

Her fingers pressed insistently atop his knee. He felt the warmth of her touch through his faded jeans. It burned into him even when she jerked her hand away as if she felt it too.

“As you've reminded me many times, you remember everything I said that day in your classroom.” She made no effort to slow the color that crept up her throat. “I wasn't playing schoolgirl games with you, Sam. I'd been praying and studying on the subject of a Godly mate and since you were active in church back then, every road led me straight to you. Some of the most meaningful moments in my life up till that point had involved you.

“There were so many times when kids wouldn't
include me in their games, but I could always count on Thursdays with you. When I hated standing out like Bozo the Clown, you called me Rusty and said my hair made me special. You won my heart, Sam.” She blinked back the tears that threatened. “I can't remember my mother's face, but everything about those days with you is etched into my memory.” Her voice broke.

She paused for a sip of her tea and he noticed how the ice in her glass clinked from the shaking of her hand. He didn't deserve, and he couldn't bear to witness her raw emotions.

“I know this is important,” he interrupted. “And we can continue this conversation later if you still want to say these things. But could we stop here and go for a ride before it gets dark? There's something I'd like to show you.” He held out his hand.

She heaved what sounded like a sigh of relief, gave him a small smile and slipped her palm into his.

Ten minutes later when she reappeared in sneakers and jeans, her hair pulled into a tight braid, he almost regretted his offer to take her for a ride.

“Promise me you'll put that dress on and let your hair down when we get back?”

“If you insist.” She rolled her eyes. Her composure had returned.

“Oh, I insist.”

The sky still glowed from the persistent rays of
a sweltering summer sun. Longer days meant late-evening sunset cruises. At the outskirts of Beardsly, the bike roared to life and ate up the hot pavement.

Several minutes into the ride, Tara relaxed her hold on his waist. He rejected the obvious ploy of swerving to miss a pothole so she'd tighten her grip. Instead, he resorted to dipping low on a wide curve. It was a cheap trick, but it worked. Tara hugged him close, her heartbeat pressed to his spine, and he was at peace for the first time in months.

With no traffic in sight, he pulled the bike to the shoulder of the road. The Lake o' the Pines Bridge stretched before them. Sam cut the engine and dropped the kickstand. Following his lead, she removed her helmet.

“See that stretch of cleared shoreline right there?” He slid off the bike, wrapped an arm around her shoulders and angled her so she could site down the length of his arm.

“The place where the pegs stick up out of the water?”

“That's it. Those are pilings for the dock. There's three hundred feet of shoreline extending from that yellow flag over there to just below the bridge, down that way.” He indicated the boundaries with pride. “It's five acres of wooded property. Hardwoods, too, not scruff pine. According to the agent, it's been on the market less than a week.”

“It's beautiful. I'm sure some technology mogul
from California will snap it up, mow down the trees, put his summer house too close to the water and sue the county because the bridge blocks the view.”

“I don't think so,” he disagreed. “Not on that spot, anyway.”

She leaned back and squinted as if getting a closer look at him. “What are you up to?”

“Nothin',” he insisted. “I have a hunch somebody who cares about this land will do right by it.”

She glanced in the direction he'd pointed and then back at him, her eyes wide with suspicion. “You're not thinking of getting some of your
friends
to invest in that property, are you, Sam?”

“And if I am?” He baited her.

“Then they'll be right up the road from us and you'll become an accessory to whatever they're up to out here.” A sharp shake of her head pulled curls free from the braid. He tugged a thin strand of the auburn silk and caressed it between his thumb and index finger.

“You worry too much, Rusty.”

“And you don't seem to worry at all, which worries me even more.”

Unable to resist any longer, he grasped both her elbows and tugged her against his chest. She gave a small gasp of surprise as he slanted his mouth across hers.

 

Sam raised his head but continued to hold her to his chest. She felt his heart thumping double-time compared to her own. He drew a breath to speak but hesitated.

“What?” she encouraged.

He kissed the top of her head as he held her in the tender embrace. She felt his warm breath as a sigh escaped. “What is it, Sam?” she asked again.

“Just don't worry about me, Rusty. I know you feel guilty for what happened, but my life hasn't turned out so bad.”

She closed her eyes and said a short prayer for the strength to walk away with her head held high when the time came. She gave him a hard squeeze and as she pushed away she teased, “You're going to be the one who feels guilty if my dinner is dried out when we get home.”

“Then home it is.” He bowed and extended his arm toward the bike with a flourish. “M'lady, your trusty steed awaits.”

Mouthwatering aromas radiated from the kitchen at Sycamore House. Sam pitched in to get the meal on the table, filling the water goblets and placing fat pats of butter and flaky rolls on each bread plate. Flickering candles flanked the riot of colorful blooms that formed the table's centerpiece.

“Dinner is served,” she announced with pride as
she approached the dining-room table carrying a platter laden with beef Wellington.

Over steamed carrots, fresh green beans and mushrooms with pearl onions, they feasted on the juicy tenderloin and laughed about what seemed like very old times. Memories became a game of trivia as they recalled moments the two of them had experienced together.