Tennessee Touch, Sisters of Spirit #6 (21 page)

She turned her head as their lips met. Neither one of them seemed to mind that she had been watching. Had they even noticed? It embarrassed her slightly and she chided herself for the emotion. Actually, once she thought about it, she was happy for them. Their romance seemed to be avoiding the sharp curves and bumps hers had taken.

For the first time in her life she was hurrying with a man—as fast as he could legally take her—to a private, secluded spot, where he was going to...to love her...and her body suddenly swelled with a hope, an aching yearning for him, her mouth softening in anticipation. The anticipation stirred her emotions as deeply as if he had started kissing her already.

She was thrilled at the idea, terribly happy and a little frightened at the intensity of the new feeling that swept through her. Catching his glance, she knew that he hungered for her too, wanted her with a desire that couldn't be hidden.

This man, this stranger who had invaded her life and was threatening to steal her heart, this Logan...of whom she still knew next to nothing...except that he loved her; what would he do?

She scolded herself silently. He won't hurt you. Haven't you learned by now how much he loves you? How gentle and considerate he always is?

They arrived quickly, driving across the apron towards where the plane was parked. Her mind cautioned her not to become more emotionally involved while her body argued for Logan's touch—and won.

Still she hesitated, her breath coming rapidly between parted lips as he opened the door of the car, but he pulled her outside, leaving Chantal and Ken behind. They ran through the rain to reach the plane, he half-carrying her so that they raced as one—raced toward privacy, toward...what? Why had she agreed to this? What was she letting herself in for?

 He opened the door to the plane, then turned and lifted her in as one does a precious possession, a rare gem, thoughtfully brushing the raindrops from her hair and removing her coat, throwing it impatiently over the seat and taking her to him with the complete assurance of one who wins; the confidence of continued success.

She should have known how it would be. At the first warm touch of his lips her hesitation fled and she gave herself up to his tender loving, freed from restraint in this private place, their mutual need igniting their meeting so that the gentle kisses turned desperate as they sought to fulfill the hunger starved by short meetings and long phone calls. She arched herself against him, this man Logan who said he loved her, this one who was rapidly calling forth her love for him.

He was tender and gentle even though when he held her his arms were like steel bands. He was being careful not to hold her too tightly or clasp her to him too hard; restraining himself even as his desire for her soared. She could read it in his eyes and in the hunger of his kiss. Now and then his clasp hurt, but when she flinched he immediately slackened his hold. She could cling and squeeze all she wanted too, but he had to take care not to bruise her.

It was what they had both wanted—a time to quit talking and start doing. Sweet nectar, ambrosia...the murmur and sighs of love. Logan told her between kisses, and then once more as they came up for air, that he loved her. There could be no mistaking how he felt.

And once again, when she could talk, she told him she needed time. Although it certainly felt like she was in love with him, she wasn't positively sure. Were emotions the sole criteria? Wasn't a certain amount of knowledge needed also? Shouldn't the mind, as well as the body, be able to give itself completely?

How did one know? Alison was torn with indecision. Only time would tell, but would her emotions allow her mind the time it required?

Then, too soon, Ken was banging on the outside of the door, reminding them that distance and duty were once again ready to separate them. Unbelievably, an hour had been spent taking in sight and sound and scent and touch. An hour of reaching out to each other on a more intimate plane than ever before.

She had often wondered if she could ever be comfortable with a man; giving herself to him—intimately. If she would ever desire a man to the point of losing her reserve. If she could ever be able to become involved to the point where the entirety of her consciousness was centered upon him and him alone. It had taken Logan to show her that she could; at least she could for him.

She had gone to him as pliant and as willing as a women deeply in love. Was she?

 Alison jumped, shocked back to the surroundings by Ken's first knock, yet readily came back for Logan's murmured, "One more;" wanting, as he did, every second left them. Their last kiss was bittersweet, poignant with longing and good bye, desperately prolonging final contact.

If only she could have kept him here. But men had their jobs to do, a part of them they often kept separate from the women in their lives ...especially men like Logan and Ken.

"This is it, then, sweetheart," he said. "Time's up."

"Logan, must you go?" Her cry was anguished, pleading, and his reply equally so.

"Please, don't ask me that. Don't tear me in two. If I were free...of other commitments...I'd never leave you."

"I'm sorry. I know. It's just that—"

"Yeah. Isn't it?"

They straightened up quickly and opened the door to a rain-soaked Ken. He turned and waved to Chantal before coming inside and Alison met Logan's eyes with sorrowful farewell before going out into the storm. "Have a safe flight," she called.

"I'll phone when we arrive," he promised, and did so, five hours later, talking for only a short time before he hung up to catch some sleep before the next day.

The rest of the week drug by, each day seeming to exist only for the nightly phone calls. Alison continued to jog with Ross. He continued to ask her out and she continued to refuse him.

The next Monday evening, knowing that Logan and Ken weren't coming, Alison drove over to see Chantal. Misery loves company and she was sure that Chantal would be glad to have her. Instead, Chantal had the TV on, watching another football game as the players ran onto the field. Alison started to leave, but Chantal asked her to stay.

"We can talk. I can watch at the same time." It was still better than sitting home alone, waiting for the phone to ring, so Alison let herself be persuaded.

"I'll fix us a meal; or have you eaten?" Alison asked. She hadn't felt hungry all week and hadn't bothered with more than a sandwich today at lunch and a cold chicken leg after she'd gone home. She might as well eat here. Perhaps she'd have more of an appetite eating with Chantal.

"No, I had to work late. All the holiday decorating—it's that time again, you realize."

"They should wait until after Thanksgiving."

Chantal shrugged off the sarcasm. "Got to give the shoppers plenty of encouragement."

"I guess so. What'd you want?"

"Anything." Chantal didn't sound interested in food, either.

Alison searched through Chantal’s cupboards, considering different recipe combinations before she came up with what she wanted. She had the time to fix something nice, like blackened salmon and Caesar salad with a peach/yoghurt dessert. It took over an hour, but Chantal was watching more than chatting and it gave Alison something to do.

They each took a tray in by the TV set, as the game was close and Chantal's favorite team, the Boston Wolverines, were playing. Alison daydreamed, recalling as well as she could each word, each kiss of Logan's, while the game progressed and Chantal became more involved.

Suddenly Chantal, who was talking about the last play, interrupted herself to scream, "Alison. Look! It's him!"

"Huh? Who?" That snapped her briskly back from Logan's arms. She hadn't been particularly listening to Chantal earlier, but the high-pitched words penetrated immediately.

"Ken. Kenneth Earle!"

Chantal was squinting intently at the TV and pointed excitedly to the screen where tiny figures were piled up in a large, squirming heap on the muddy field. Arms and legs and helmets were somehow attached to bodies, and the process of disentangling had begun.

Alison glanced reluctantly at the screen, seeing the uniform figures en masse. "Where?"

Unable to sit still, Chantal bounced to her feet and danced about the room in the joy of her discovery. "He's underneath. I saw him. Alison, they're football players."

"Oh, Chantal!" Alison shook her head hopelessly. Her friend was getting impossible. Chantal had been "spotting" Ken and Logan in every magazine, TV show, or newspaper picture that held any remote facial resemblance. She had first claimed they were TV actors, then stars of various sports, politicians, rich oil men and movie stars. "You can't tell what they look like with those helmets on."

The figures were separated now, leaving one still lying on the rain-soaked ground, motionless, his body covered with mud. From the sidelines the coach and trainers could be seen hurrying out to check on their injured player.

"What a bloodthirsty sport. I can't see what you like about it." Football. One team hurting the other.

Chantal refrained from answering. She had given up three years ago trying to get Alison interested in the game. The announcers were talking about the injured player, Jake Earle, and his picture—helmet-less—was shown briefly on the screen as he was half-carried off the field. "See," she said. "There's Ken. He's their wide receiver."

Alison glanced at the screen again, getting a second's look before the picture flashed off. With a lot of imagination, she just might make the well-groomed, smiling man she had seen a week ago Tuesday change into the grim-looking brute portrayed in the picture. But she wasn't going to try. He looked as mean as a grizzly bear.

"Why don't you give up? The name isn't even right."

"I tell you, it's him...and Josh Logan!" Chantal rarely squealed, but she was so excited her voice changed to a high pitch. "Oh, I'm right, I'm right, I know I'm right!"

She jumped over, grabbed Alison's tray, set it aside, and pushed her forcibly closer to the screen. "I'll show you. Look there. Logan. You can't say that name's wrong."

Chantal had a point so Alison allowed herself to be plunked down closer in front of the TV and dutifully watched as Chantal pointed out Logan. He was easy to keep track of since he wore number two on his back and the camera always seemed to be focused on him.

"It's a good thing they number them," Alison said. “You can’t see any of their faces with those helmets on.”

"Josh Logan is one of the best quarterbacks in the NFL right now. And Jake Earle a leading receiver. They play for the Green Bay Skippers."

"Not your Wolverines?"

"No...worse luck" Chantal scowled at the set as if she could force her wishes on the game. "And they're beating Boston right now. If they had been Wolverines, I'd have spotted them right off."

 "Maybe. But you can't tell what they look like with all that gear on. And what about the name? Jake Earle is not Ken Earle. Or James Earle. They might be brothers or cousins or something, but I'm afraid you're way off, Chantal. Logan does have a friend called Jake," she added, “but he owns a Pizza place. Jake’s Pizza Parlor.”

"Maybe," the dark-haired woman reluctantly agreed. "But I know I've seen them both before. Look, Earle is re-entering the game."

"He's going to play again? I thought he was done for the day. He could barely walk."

"They're tough."

"Or stupid," Alison said, remembering her brother. "That's another reason why you're wrong. Ken and Logan aren't mean enough. And they don't talk about it. Even Ross, who just played college ball, talks about his football exploits as if they were the greatest things to ever happen."

 She should have known better than to come visiting on Monday night. It had been an impulsive decision—she had come uninvited—and had forgotten about Monday night football. "Are you going to watch the whole game?"