Sealed with a Kiss (5 page)

Unsettled by his emotions, he recovered from the tender moment by squashing the helmet over Tara's head, careful of her exposed ears. Her mouth popped open preparing to object, so he secured and tightened the chin strap.

“You are wasting your time, Sam. I have no intention of getting on that thing.” She pointed a shaking finger at the powerful machine.

“Scared?” he taunted.

“I've never been scared of anything in my life.”

“How about spiders?”

“Okay, there's that,” she conceded, “but otherwise I'm fearless.”

“Then there's no problem. Let's go.” He stepped
to the truck to collect her pocketbook and keys, and locked the dented door, not that anyone would think to vandalize the battered old work truck.

Approaching his reluctant passenger, he admired her in the colorful outfit. “Rusty,” he said, smiling broadly at the picture before him. “You are some firecracker.”

Tara's lips curved in a shy smile but the look in her eyes said she didn't quite believe the compliment.

He grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the bike where he stowed her belongings in a leather pouch. She stood to one side as he secured his helmet, settled himself on the seat and brought the engine to life.

“Put your left foot on that peg and throw your right leg over the seat behind me.”

Worried eyes passed across Sam and the bike.

“What are you looking for?”

“Where do I hold on?”

Laughter rumbled deep in his chest. “Put your hand on my shoulder while you climb on and then wrap your arms around my waist.” He might as well have a little fun. “And you'll need to hold on tight to keep from being thrown off the back when we hit bumps.”

Mortified, she backed away from the bike. The look of trepidation on her face was priceless.

“I'm joking. Get on and feel free to hold on, but
not out of fear.” He revved the engine and she responded by hopping into place and throwing her arms around his middle.

He rolled the throttle and her arms tightened as the bike roared onto the quiet country highway.

Anticipation curved Sam's lips into a sly smile. The woman was a tempting target and the afternoon presented some unexpected possibilities for payback.

T
ara clung to Sam as if her life depended on it. Chin tucked, jaw clenched and eyes squeezed shut, she held her breath and braced for the inevitable moment when she'd be hurled into space, her life snuffed out against a tall Texas pine.

She felt a rumble of sound where her chest was pressed against Sam and realized he'd spoken. She didn't dare raise her head to respond, but held on tighter.

Again the rumble, this time followed by the warmth of a comforting hand placed over the death grip she had around his taut stomach. He patted her clenched knuckles, then gave them a little shake.

Even maintaining her stiff posture she couldn't ignore the light massage he was administering to her rigid wrists and forearms. The message was obvious. Loosen up.

Chest aching from holding her breath, she exhaled through dry lips and then inhaled slowly to fill deflated lungs. Along with the oxygen came the scent, the very essence of Sam. An appealing mixture of morning soap and afternoon heat stole into her nostrils and tickled her senses.

“Well, do you like it?”

Her eyes flew open, revealing a blur of scenery streaking past them at what seemed like a hundred miles an hour.

“Do I like what?” she returned his shout.

“The ride. Isn't it great?” Sam angled his head to keep his eyes on the road while his words flew over his shoulder.

“I feel like I'm riding a guided missile.”

“We're only going the speed limit. You want me to show you what she'll really do?”

“No!”

His roar of laughter coaxed a trembling smile to Tara's lips.

Sam pointed to a sign indicating an
S
-curve in the road up ahead.

“When we go into the curves, lean with the bike. Got that?”

As she nodded understanding, a right-hand bend in the road closed around them and he accelerated, angling the handlebars and his shoulder toward the pavement. Heart pounding with pure terror, she followed his lead. She gripped Sam's middle, molded
her body to his and leaned with him into the curve. Before the squeal in her throat could escape, the bike entered the bottom of the
S
-bend and the two humans moved as one with the machine.

The few seconds it took to navigate the double curve seemed an eternity. The moment they were once again perpendicular with the road she opened her mouth to release a scream.

But Sam beat her to it.

“Yee-ha!” he shouted, and punched the air with his fist.

Tara understood his exhilaration.

“You okay?”

She could hear the smile in his voice. It was an endearing sound.

“I'm okay,” she confirmed.

“Then let's make time.”

 

She turned out to be a good sport, a revelation that dampened Sam's devious intentions. In fact, he was pleasantly surprised by the woman who'd once been so reluctant to try anything new.

Although he had important calls to return to associates in Houston, he made the spontaneous decision to take Tara straight to the flea market instead of stopping at the first gas station they saw. If she preferred to do otherwise she was keeping her opinion to herself.

He took the parkway around the business district
and made it to the fairgrounds well before the early birds began to pack for the drive home. The gate attendant waved them through, pure longing on his young face for the classic bike. Sam idled the bike into a shady spot and cut the engine.

“How'd you manage this?” Tara gestured toward the VIP parking sign.

He tugged at his helmet and slid off the seat. “You'd be surprised at the special treatment these motorcycles get. And that's why they're going to sell.”

Tara handed over her headgear, apparently oblivious to her light case of helmet hair.

“But aren't these things expensive?” She grasped his outstretched hand and he hauled her to a standing position.

“They're not cheap, but there are bargains to be had and I intend to offer great terms.”

“You're not going to use your
connections
are you, Sam? Grandmother would never have given you this opportunity if she'd thought for a moment you were involved with someone dishonorable.”

Taking a step closer to Tara, he stared down into her eyes.

“Someone dishonorable,” he repeated flatly. “You mean the kind of person who would use their good fortune to take advantage of others? You mean someone who might lie to serve their own purposes?” He watched her blink hard at the descrip
tion. “Well, that's the connection I have right now, don't you reckon, Rusty?”

He didn't back away and she wouldn't look away. Color swept over her throat, highlighted by the bright-yellow blouse. As crimson streaks snaked across her skin, she made no effort to do her silly breathing exercises. When the warmth reached her face, she took a small step closer, pressing the tip of her index finger into his chest.

“Listen, Sam, I tried to explain and you wouldn't give me the chance.”

“And I'm not going to let you
explain
it today, either.” He brushed her finger away. “You can live with the consequences of what happened, just like I have.”

“You think I haven't?” She bristled. The heat infused her cheeks. “I've lived with it every day for nine years.”

Arms folded across his chest, he leaned back to study her. “Good. That's what I wanted to hear.” He glanced down at his drug-store wristwatch. “You've got a while before they close, so get going. I'll meet you back here in two hours.”

The upward jerk of her chin and the sudden glistening in her eyes told Sam nothing was settled. But it never could be as far as he was concerned.

 

Tara splashed cool water on her face and dabbed it with a coarse paper towel. She ran shaking fin
gers through flattened hair, disgusted with her pitiful attempt to be feminine.

How on earth were they supposed to be partners when they couldn't even be civil? Did they stand a chance of helping the economy of a small town when they hardly stood the chance of being friends? What in the world was her grandmother thinking when she came up with this scheme?

Tara pushed the troubling thoughts aside. At the moment there was a more pressing issue to address. She needed to secure a few eye-catching pieces to act as the central focus for her grand opening, only weeks away. She considered temporarily moving some of her own antiques from the house to the shop, but she wanted everything on display at Bridges to be for sale.

No matter what the price, parting with the exquisite furnishings in Sycamore House was not an option. Yet.

Several times already, she'd made that clear to the persistent Houston dealer who had called almost daily since Miriam Elliott's obituary had been picked up by the
Chronicle
. The incredible ensemble of furniture, showcased in both
Texas Living
and
Southern Comfort
magazines was the envy of collectors across the state. At a well-advertised sale, it could fetch a prince's ransom. She hoped she'd never have to resort to that plan.

She shook her head, dismissing the very idea
and began to weave her way up and down the long marketplace aisles. Dealers from surrounding states brought everything from silver to stained glass, cheap pine nightstands to Chippendale chairs.

The third-generation owners of The Heritage had hired her for her broad knowledge of collectibles, and her countless hours of study would pay off at these regional markets.

Every month shoppers saw a new round of wares. The untrained eye could be deceived. That deception ran both ways. A smooth-talking dealer could pawn off a good copy of a Tiffany lamp on an unsuspecting buyer. On the other hand, a six-hundred-dollar Roseville bowl might nestle amid garage-kiln pottery on a table labeled Nothing Over a Buck!

Thirty minutes into the search, a jiggling display of bobble-head dolls stopped her cold. Celebrity cartoon faces smiled and nodded agreeably on their springy necks. But it was the padded surface they perched upon that caught her attention.

She squatted to eye level with the tabletop and used a thumbnail to gently scratch at the surface and chip away black paint from a carved leg. It was in desperate need of stripping and refinishing, but beneath the dust, cigarette scars and coats of household lacquer was a Victorian kneehole writing desk with a tooled leather top. Restored, it would easily bring three thousand at auction.

Sitting in dilapidated lawn chairs were two seventy-something gentlemen in seersucker cover-alls, mirror images of one another. She extended a hand.

“Hello, I'm Tara Elliott.”

One clasped her palm in a friendly shake. “Evening ma'am. Name's Ward Carlton. This here's Walter. We're the Carlton brothers.”

“Pleased to meet you, gentlemen. What are you asking for the desk?”

“Well, we don't have a price on the desk. We only sell the dolls. Right, Walter?”

Walter nodded.

“But you would consider it, wouldn't you?” She smiled at Walter.

“Don't know why not. Ward?”

“Works for me.” Ward scratched his gray head and took several turns around the table. “How about thirty-five?”

“Hundred?” Tara gulped. Maybe this wasn't her day after all.

The brothers stretched their lips back over their teeth, grinned and nodded, looking like bobble-heads sprung to life.

“Point well taken, ma'am.” Ward continued to chuckle. “Okay, I guess that was a bit much for this old thing. It'd been sittin' in the barn forever. I dragged it out and put a new coat of paint on it a couple years back and it makes a pretty good dis
play table, don't you think? But it's awful heavy to get on and off the truck, even for both of us.”

He pointed over his shoulder to the late-model diesel pickup.

“I think TV trays would do just as good, don't you Walter?

Walter nodded some more.

“So we'll take twenty-eight dollars, twenty-five if you have cash.”

“Twenty-five
dollars
? That's all you're asking?”

Ward squinted one eye, leaned his whiskered chin against a weathered hand and rocked back on his heels to study the desk.

“You think it's worth more, ma'am?”

“After a good deal of restoration I'm certain it will command a handsome price.”

“Well, that settles it. Two cans of spray paint is all the restoration it's gonna see from me or Walter. The price is twenty-five cash. Take it or leave it.”

“Sold,” she agreed, and handed the man two bills. “What time will you be leaving today? My rental truck ran out of gas halfway from Beardsly and I have to pick it up and come back.”

“We've got a place right outside of Beardsly. We'll deliver for another five.”

“Make it ten,” she bartered. “Deliver the bookcases I already bought and you've got a deal.”

“Make it fifteen and we'll deliver everything else you buy today, too.” He rubbed leathery
palms together, eyes twinkling as he anticipated the payoff.

She checked the time. “In that case, I'd better get busy.”

 

Sam caught sight of Tara about fifty yards from the gate. Her lustrous hair, set off by the yellow blouse, made it hard to miss her. He saw others take note of her, as well. Her empty hands were evidence she'd struck out, but she strolled with a carefree spring in her step through the dwindling crowd.

The determination to maintain his foul mood fled on the breeze as wisps of her hair danced out of control. By the time she reached the bike he was mesmerized by the motion. She'd grown into a spectacular, self-confident woman. As his heart thundered at the thought, he reminded himself that his real life was on hold for some payback. Nothing more.

“No go, huh?” he asked, casually.

“On the contrary.” She flashed an enchanting smile. This close he could see the way her front teeth overlapped a tiny bit. Running his tongue across a smooth bite, he remembered how embarrassingly crooked his own teeth had once been. He'd financed braces before he'd even financed his first bike.

Tara continued, “I bought several nice pieces of furniture and quite a few interesting knickknacks for Bridges.”

He looked past her for some proof of the statement.

“Don't worry, everything's being delivered tomorrow. If you can take me to get some gas and drop me off at the truck I won't be any more bother.

Today,
anyway.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I'm going to need a little help getting the pieces up the stairs.”

“Let me guess. You want
me
to do it.”

“No, of course not. I thought maybe you'd allow your construction friends to help me for an hour or so. I'll pay the going rate till I can find some local boys to help out in the future.”

“And what's wrong with the guys making the delivery?”

“They're a little old to be hauling heavy pieces up twenty steps. I'm sure they'd help if I asked, but to be honest, I already feel like I've taken advantage of them.”

“How's that?”

“They sold me an old desk, and I'm positive there's a very nice piece beneath about ten layers of black paint.”

“Did they set the price?”

“Yes. I even gave them the opportunity to raise it.”

“Then you're not taking advantage.” He handed her a helmet.

“I know, but they seem like such nice men, I hate making a huge profit on them.”

“Get used to it. The goal of enterprise is to buy low and sell high. You're in this for the money, so save your guilt for something besides profit margins.”

“You're right, and if their big truck is any indicator, the Carlton brothers do very well for themselves.”

“Ward and Walter Carlton?” he asked, not believing the dumb luck.

“You know them?”

“Everybody who's lived in this state for the past three years knows them. They own Flapjack Heaven.”