The One Worth Waiting For (7 page)

And he did look good in the sheet, like some wild pagan with his long black hair and week’s worth of beard. The thin white cotton contrasted vividly with his darkly tanned, black-furred chest. His ribs still stood out sharply, a testimony to wherever he’d been but couldn’t remember. And on his arm she could see the burn scar, mirroring the one on his leg. She found her eyes lingering there and had difficulty swallowing. He had strong, well-muscled thighs.

She’d thought about him all last night. Lain there on her bed, the hot, humid July wrapping around her while images of his naked, muscular build branded themselves into her mind. She’d found herself wondering what it would be like to run her hands through that crisp, dark matting of hair, what it would feel like to lay her head against his solid, well-defined chest.

The restless, inexplicable ache in her stomach had been almost unbearable.

“I, I gather you’re staying a bit longer,” she stammered, leaning farther back against the door.

“A bit,” he replied darkly. His gaze wandered restlessly around the entryway, and she could see his fists clench and unclench at his side. Garret was the most physical man she’d ever known, more at home with football, track and baseball than in the tight confines of the classroom. From the bleachers, she used to watch him practice, captivated by the sheer beauty and grace of his power. Dreading returning home.

“Maybe I could show you around,” she said breathlessly, trying to think of anything to keep herself distracted. “I don’t think you were ever inside the house.”

He shook his head and abruptly his scowl faded. She knew without asking what he was thinking because she was remembering it, as well. Her mother, long hair unkempt and skin bloated from the alcohol, lolling against the sofa. From time to time, people had come over and sat on the huge, wraparound porch of the old house. But no one had ever come inside, and no one had ever asked to, either.

“How’s Rachel?” Garret asked suddenly, his eyes watchful.

Suzanne shrugged at the reference to her sister. “Married now,” she said simply. “She lives in Charlotte.”

Garret nodded. “You get to see her often?”

Suzanne paused, then shook her head. “Rachel swore never to come back,” she said squarely, her gaze momentarily resting on his face. “You ought to know something about that. But then, you at least went off to do some good instead of serving as a human punching bag for a drunken lout.”

Garret stiffened, his dark brows drawing together into a fearsome line. “Her husband beats her?”

Suzanne arched a fine brow. “It happens, you know.”

“Well, damn it, you ought to do something about it!”

“And what would that be, Garret? Kidnap her, maybe shoot him? She’s a grown woman. She makes her own choices.”

Garret glared his disapproval, but she met his dark gaze unflinchingly with her own steady eyes. She didn’t need him to lecture her about her sister. She’d spent the first twenty years of her life trying to raise Rachel, trying to protect and shelter her from the burdens of their life. She didn’t need Garret to point out her failure, and she didn’t need Garret to voice all the worries that continued to age her before her time.

“Men shouldn’t beat women,” Garret said curtly. He began prowling the small square of the entryway again, the folds of cotton swishing around his thighs as he walked.

Suzanne didn’t say anything, just watched his relentless pacing.

He whirled around abruptly, just a few feet away, and pinned her with such dark eyes she forgot to breathe.

“I can go have a talk with this guy before I leave,” he offered suddenly.

Suzanne smiled, a small, twisted smile, and shook her head. “This isn’t high school anymore, Garret. Conway isn’t Tank Nemeth. You did what you could once, and God knows I’ve tried. Maybe someday…” She shrugged. “I put aside a little money here and there. If she ever gets up the courage to leave, I’ll help her. It’s the best any of us can do.”

He nodded, but he could see the tightness around her eyes, the press of her lips. He’d upset her, and he’d always hated to see Suzanne Montgomery upset. Then she squared her shoulders in a gesture he knew too well, and he felt his muscles tighten beyond restraint. It was all he could do not to take a step forward. As she moved away from the door, he caught the scent of roses, and he had to clench his teeth not to abruptly draw her into his arms.

Damn, but he’d never understood himself around her. And damn again that he was here in this ridiculous sheet, barely able to remember his own name.

He wanted nothing better than to throw his fist through a wall, or worse, catch her in his arms and kiss her senseless. How many pins before that proper hair came cascading down? How many kisses before that tight look left her face and she melted against him, moaning his name.

He whirled around and began pacing the confines of the entryway in earnest. If he had to stay cooped up much longer, he was going to lose what was left of his mind.

“I’ll show you around,” Suzanne offered softly.

He nodded without meeting her eye, and followed her gratefully into the next room. Her hips swayed softly when she walked, the deep brown folds of the dress swishing seductively around her ankles.

His body went hard, and he decided he truly was a depraved S.O.B.

At least the living room was big. He immediately veered away from her, crossing to the wide expanse of bay windows. Through the white-rimmed panes of glass, he could see the hot July sun seeping through tall maples and deep green firs. At the edge of her lawn, golden fields swayed with the force of an invisible wind. If he stood outside now, he would smell honeysuckle and heat and freshly mowed grass. In the mornings, there would be a hint of cool pine, drawn down from the mountains, and in the evenings, the hum of the crickets’ lullaby. Hot, languorous days and soft Southern nights, meant for lounging on porches with sweating glasses of minted iced tea in hand.

It had been a long time since he’d been home.

“People come by often?” he heard himself asking curtly.

Behind him, he could feel more than see her shake her head. “The house is set back a bit, and I don’t get too many visitors.”

“Good.”

He forced himself away from the window and continued his prowl. The living room was everything he’d expected, he decided. The worn hardwood floor was well oiled and partly covered by an old gold, crimson and blue Oriental rug. Rather than a normal-size couch, she had one of those antique love seats with faded gold fabric and curved legs he didn’t trust to support a child, let alone a full-grown man like himself. Everything was old and worn, but she’d tried to dress the place up with vases of roses and brightly flowered pillows.

If you looked closely enough, though—and he always did—you could see the fraying of the fabric, the thin lines etching up through the plaster of the walls. The house was simply damn old, its contents, as well. Maybe too old for a single woman on a schoolteacher’s salary.

He filed that away in the back of his mind and wondered why, once her mother had died and her sister had moved away, she continued to stay. From the perimeter of the room, he spared her a quick glance. She stood in the center, trying to appear nonchalant, while her hands slowly crushed the hell out of her skirt. He found himself grinning.

Old TV, not even with a remote. But she’d come into the nineties enough to purchase a VCR, and shelved neatly beneath it was an alphabetical selection of a dozen movie titles. He scanned them quickly.
An Affair to Remember, The African Queen, Casablanca, From Here to Eternity.
He threw her a cocked eyebrow, and her chin came up primly.

“I like classics,” she said. He kept looking at her, and she crunched her skirt a little more. He began to feel like the big bad wolf confronting Little Red Riding Hood.

It wasn’t such a bad description.

“The dining room’s through here,” she told him, her voice light. He could still read her agitation, however, in the quick rise and fall of her chest. The pretty, tiny-flowered fabric of her dress molded her breasts nicely, highlighting the soft, feminine swell with an enticing trim of lace. She walked through an archway into another room, her skirt swirling around her, and he followed her with the hunger still burning in his gaze.

The dining room was dominated by a large oval table, and she took refuge behind it.

“It’s not much,” she said quietly. The table was old, and once it had probably been beautiful, as well. But her ancestors hadn’t been good caretakers, or perhaps back then they’d had enough money not to care. At any rate, the formerly rich cherry wood was now warped with water damage and the table was wobbly from years of neglect. Nicks and scrapes, filled in from her futile attempts at refinishing the piece, rimmed the outside edge.

It seemed to her that Garret’s sharp eyes saw every flaw, and she kept her shoulders rigidly straight. She’d fought so hard to save the house that simple possession had seemed enough. Now, for the first time, she was looking at her rooms through a stranger’s eyes and seeing all the blemishes on her prize—the old furniture she couldn’t afford to reupholster, the rug she didn’t have enough money to replace. She’d wanted to repaint the rooms last year, but the roof began leaking in the spring, taking up all her money instead.

Garret came to the marked-up buffet, and a traitorous blush crept unwanted up her cheeks. Behind the protective glass rested her one true indulgence: her dolls.

She flitted over, more nervous than she ever wanted to be, and opened the glass doors as if it didn’t mean much to her at all.

“I started collecting them ten years ago,” she said, her voice only slightly breathless. He stood right beside her now, and she could smell the warm masculine scent of sweat and soap.

“When your mother died,” he filled in softly.

Her hands stilled for a moment, then she willed them back into motion. She forgot sometimes how smart Garret was, how easily he could fill in the blanks. “Yes.”

She drew out the first of the ten dolls, a beautiful, porcelain girl with long brown hair falling in silky ringlets. She had wide blue eyes, blushing cheeks and a feathery hat. An exquisite creation, she was draped in a lovely dress of roseflowered cotton, gathered with lace and bows. Suzanne lifted the doll up, feeling the full porcelain body rest like a baby’s weight in her hand. As she raised the doll, the delicate eyelashes fluttered up, her jointed arms coming down.

“She’s fully jointed porcelain,” Suzanne tried to explain briskly. “She has pierced ears, detailed clothing down to the shoes and twenty-four-carat gold painted around her wrist.”

All careful considerations when contemplating buying a doll. And none of them explained why she’d actually bought the first doll ten years ago. Maybe because she didn’t like to recall the tightness that hit her chest when she’d seen the beautiful little girl staring back at her with china blue eyes. She didn’t like to think of the pang of loneliness that struck so suddenly and so sharply that tears had sprung into her eyes as she stood in front of the store.

The dolls were everything beautiful and innocent and cosseted. Everything that as a child she’d never been, and as an adult would never be. And sometimes, in moments of weakness, she could picture herself handing the dolls to a phantom daughter and whispering with her about the beauty of their shared treasures.

Now, she fussed with the doll’s hat, her hands trembling, while she tried to keep her emotions under control. “They’re good investments,” she said evenly. She could feel Garret’s eyes boring into her face and didn’t dare look up.

“They’re pretty,” he said roughly. She nodded, but he felt the nervousness rolling off her in waves. Her face was pale, her hands shaky as she fidgeted with the fragile doll. And suddenly, he could see her in the rain, dressed in the ragged jeans and worn T-shirt she’d always worn back then, her hair long and lank around her thin face. He’d never completely understood why she’d walked him to the bus stop until those last moments when the bus had been pulling away and he’d seen her lips form those three silent words in the rain.

Funny how he’d never forgotten that image. Funny how over the years, in all the wars and battles, in times of crisis, it was always her face that came to mind. Now here he was, standing in her house with its antiques and roses and dolls, and he felt suddenly eighteen again.

He felt hungry and raw and strange. More than anything in the world, he felt like he wanted to take the doll from her nervous hands, draw her into his arms and kiss her.

He found himself leaning forward, and at the last moment, her hazel eyes swept up to meet his own. Immediately, she froze, a deer captured by headlights, and her gaze fell instinctively to his bearded lips.

He leaned closer, catching the faint scent of dried roses and apple shampoo. He watched her lips part, full and pink and trembling with the anticipation. His body was rock hard again, and he only knew that he wanted her.

His large, callused hands drew the doll from her nerveless grasp and rested it carefully on the ledge of the buffet. Then he cupped his hands around her shoulders, feeling the soft, polished cotton of her beautiful dress and pulled her toward him. She came willingly, her eyes still round and glazed as they fastened upon his face. For a long moment, he didn’t move, but let her feel the heat and hardness of his body pressed against her soft, giving curves. His bare, muscled leg pressed between her own, rubbing her intimately.

She gasped softly, her cheeks coloring, but she still didn’t pull away. His thumb caressed the softness of her cheek, following the curve to her tender earlobe, finding the throbbing blue pulse in her neck. She shifted restlessly, the movement brushing her suddenly swollen breasts against his furred chest. His gaze darkened, his eyes heavy lidded as they fell once more to her lips.

“Suzanne,” he whispered huskily, “kiss me.”

Her hazel eyes opened wider at the command, and for the first time, he saw the war in her eyes.

“I—I can’t.”

His thumb brushed across her soft lips, feeling them tremble. “Yes, you can.”