The Real Father (Twins) (Harlequin Superromance No. 927) (13 page)

It wasn't until Jackson made one sharp left turn, away from the sky show, that Molly even realized they had arrived at Blossom Hill Nurseries.

Her heart fell. She had already tried Blossom Hill Nurseries. Like everyone else, they didn't have a single flowering shrub of any description left in their inventory.

“Oh, Jackson,” she said mournfully, as sorry for him as she was for herself or Lavinia. He had seemed so excited about his “miracle.”

“Is this where we're heading? I should have told you—I called them weeks ago. They're completely out.”

His smile didn't fade a single millimeter. “Really?” He pulled the car into the empty parking lot and shut off the engine. “I guess you must have forgotten to say the magic word.”

“What?” She nudged his elbow. “I resent that. I
always
say
please.
”

“I'm sure you do.” He looked smug as he disengaged his seat belt. “But in this particular case, the magic word is
Virginia.
”

She shook her head, confused. “Virginia?”

“Well, I suppose
Kentucky
would have done. Or
Delaware.
You just needed another state. And of course, it helps to add the words
overnight express.
”

She stared at him, not quite believing her ears. “You had the plants shipped here overnight?” She glanced at the quiet nursery incredulously, then looked back at him. “Impossible. Or almost impossible. I'll bet you had to throw in a couple of other words, too. Like
unbelievably expensive?
”

He tssked disapprovingly. “You know, Molly, when you're given a gift-wrapped miracle, it's tacky to look at the price tag.”

She bit her lower lip. “It's just that I can hardly believe—” She touched his sleeve. “Are you serious? You really had two hundred plants shipped here from Virginia?”

“Two hundred and fifty, actually. I thought you needed a cushion.” He grinned. “You know, in case a couple of them had a galloping case of thrips.”

Molly tightened her grip on his forearm. “Hey, don't think I didn't see you guys out there yesterday, laughing about the thrips. I'll have you know, mister, that having thrips is not funny.”

His grin broadened shamelessly. “Sure it is, M. Hear it?
Thrips.
” He put his hand on the door handle. “But are we going to go in and pick out some plants or not?”

She didn't let go of his arm, but with her free hand she gestured toward the darkened building with its silent acres of greenery stretching out behind. “It's not even open.”

“It is for us.” He dangled a single gold key toward her. “My misspent youth has finally paid off. I just happen to be old drinking buddies with the owner.”

And somehow the sight of that silly little key finally convinced her that he wasn't joking. “Jackson,” she said, leaning toward him, her hand softening on his arm. “What can I say? How can I thank—”

He put his two fingers gently over her lips. “Shhh,” he said with a smile. “Come on. Let's go buy some flowers.”

Let's go buy some flowers….
What an understatement that sentence turned out to be.

When they entered the nursery, it was like walking into the sweetest scented fairyland she had ever imagined. The Planet Cuspian couldn't be more
magical, she thought, staring at the long tables of velvety African violets and deep-blue pansies, the hanging baskets of shyly blooming lily of the valley, the long lines of potted phlox in all colors of the rainbow.

Perhaps it was just the dusty streams of dawn-pink light that made everything seem so perfect. Or perhaps it as the eerie knowledge that they were the only humans here in this world of silently growing things.

Or perhaps it was simply the sweet awareness that Jackson had worked a little miracle—and he had done it just to make her happy.

But, whatever the reason, even Molly, who worked every day with plants, who combed nurseries daily searching for merchandise, was moved by the extraordinary loveliness of this place.

“Come on,” Jackson said. “Our plants are out back.”

She was surprised to hear him speak in a normal voice. She had half expected him to whisper, as if she were in church. “Okay,” she answered softly. “Lead the way.”

He walked briskly through the narrow aisles. Occasionally his broad shoulders would brush an overhanging blossom, and the gentle perfume he released would float toward her. Now and then she fell behind, unable to pass some particularly beautiful daffodil without pressing a finger to its golden throat.

He would turn, arch an eyebrow at her, and she would begin moving again, guiltily aware that he
was on a deadline. He had told her that his charter plane was due to take off from Demery's executive airport in only a couple of hours.

The plants he had ordered for Everspring were massed just outside the main building. It was an impressive sight; dozens of ten-gallon containers of rhododendrons that were just beginning to bud, and dozens more of azaleas that were already bursting into color.

She scanned, making a quick mental inventory. Pink Countess of Derby for a large drift just outside the carriage house. Lavender Grandiflorum, which would grow as tall as a tree, to frame the back door. Small, purple Besse Howells, which would always hug the ground, to border the brick steps leading down to the fountain.

They were gorgeous. They were everything the rejected plants had not been: thick, healthy, glossy and heavy with buds.

Jackson leaned patiently against the wall, watching with a smile as she examined them carefully. It was slow, but she was glad he didn't mind, because she loved this work. She loved feathering her fingers through the leaves, looking for tiny signs that could mean big trouble later.

Were there any small, watery brown spots on any of the blooms that had already appeared—the dreaded petal blight? Mildew, fungus? Or, God forbid, whiteflies? Leaves that were too small, too yellow, too curled in on themselves, or gnawed by bugs?

But, one after another, she found that the plants were fine.

Finally she stood, rubbing the small of her back to ease the burning from so much bending and squatting.

“I can't believe how perfect everything is,” she said, suddenly overwhelmed by that very perfection. “It
is
a miracle. How could you have known exactly what I had ordered without looking at my plans?”

“That was the easy part. I called the other nursery, the shoddy one. They faxed me a list.”

He made it all seem so simple. Just as he always did… She brushed her hands against her jeans and walked over to him.

“Thank you, Jackson.” She placed a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you so much.”

Still standing in front of him, she turned to admire the plants one more time. She reached back, asking for his hands, and when he put them in hers, she wrapped his arms around her waist comfortably and leaned against him.

They had stood this way a hundred times, back in the old days. Often, huddling on the sidelines of the football field watching Beau loft flawless passes, Jackson had sheltered her from the autumn winds just like this. His girlfriends had frequently complained—lusting powerfully after Jackson themselves, they had been skeptical that any female could really love him only as a brother. But Jackson had never given any girl the right to dictate his behavior. They all knew they had to back off or lose him completely.

“Look,” Molly said contentedly, looking at the sea of greenery through half-closed lids. “Look how beautiful they are.”

“Nice plants,” he said blandly. He blew teasingly into her hair. “You're cute when you're overreacting, did I ever tell you that?”

She tilted a look at him over her shoulder. The rising sun was behind him, creating a nimbus around his hair. She caught a glimpse of his smiling eyes, so mocking and yet so gentle.

“You know, as we were driving here, I remembered something,” she said. “Something you did a long time ago.”

He groaned. “Lord. Can a man never outlive his sins?”

She patted his hand reassuringly. “This wasn't a sin, silly. I'm much too polite to bring those up right now.” She smiled, turning her head toward the plants again. “It was just a little thing—you probably don't even remember it. It happened when I was about fifteen. Beau and I had just started dating. He was supposed to pick me up after school, but he forgot. I waited there almost an hour, and I was getting nervous, because I knew I was going to be in trouble at home. And then you came.”

He shifted, as if to dismiss any impending compliments, but she went on in spite of his obvious reluctance to be cast as a hero.

“It wasn't the first time you saved me,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “and it certainly wasn't the last.”

She could feel him shaking his head behind her.
“You never needed me for that, M. You were always capable of saving yourself. Even from the dreaded thrips.” She knew that sound—she knew that a one-sided smile was tugging at his lips. “I'll bet you even had a backup plan for the landscaping, didn't you? You're just carrying on about this to humor me.”

“Don't change the subject.” She squeezed his hands reprovingly, pressing them against her stomach. “I have an important point to make.” She took a deep breath. “Ever since I've come back home, I've been seeing things so much more clearly. Things about Beau, I mean. And I've realized that I never really noticed how careless Beau was. Careless with me, with my feelings. And do you know why I didn't notice?”

His hands twitched almost imperceptibly. “Because you were crazy in love with him and blind as a newborn?”

“No.” She shook her head. “I didn't notice it because of you. Because you were always there to keep his promises for him.”

“Molly,” he said stiffly. “Molly, that's nonsense.”

“Don't worry, I'm not going to ‘carry on' about it,” she promised, leaning her head back against his shoulder. “I just wanted to say thank you. Thanks for looking out for me. Today, and all those days so long ago.”

He took a long time answering. And in that space of time, with her body resting against the safe wall
of his chest, she became acutely aware of the world waking up around them.

Only a few feet away, in one of the sweet olive trees, a mockingbird had begun an erratic, piercing song. On the highway that ran alongside the nursery, the trickle of traffic had thickened into a steady flow of groaning motion. And somewhere completely unseen a nursery worker must have arrived. Someone was digging rhythmically, shovel pounding against earth with a steady vibration that Molly felt in her veins.

Even her senses were waking up. Suddenly she could smell the sweet sunshine of Jackson's crisp cotton shirt, which had been line-dried in the kitchen garden at Everspring. She could feel the warmth of his skin through the shirt. If she held her breath, she could even sense the steady beat of his heart against her shoulder blades. Instinctively she pressed back, just a little, so that the rhythm was clearer.

When she began again to breathe, her lungs felt tight, as if she couldn't quite get enough air. She tingled strangely all over, especially where her body met his. She felt like one of the buds on those azalea bushes herself—folded tightly in a cocoon of green, but swollen and strangely expectant, ready at the slightest touch to burst into rich, flagrant color.

And suddenly she understood that she no longer saw Jackson as anyone's brother. Especially not her own.

“I've been wanting to tell you something else, too,” she said carefully. “When I kissed you the other day…”

“Yes?”

She took a shallow breath. “It was wonderful,” she admitted. “I haven't been able to stop thinking about it.”

“Really?” She felt his breath warm against her hair. His arms tightened around her, and his hands began to move on her stomach, making slow circles with his fingers. “What do you think about, M?”

Her body responded instantly, and it became even more difficult to breathe. “I think about you,” she said shallowly, closing her eyes as his thumbs drifted up toward her rib cage. “About how you tasted. About how you made me feel.”

His hands kept moving, slowly, confidently, until they grazed her breasts. She made a small sound and let a wave of rippling shivers wash over her.

And suddenly, from somewhere deep inside the nursery, someone flicked a switch. Just above the flower-laden tables beside them, a long silver system of pipes bubbled and hissed. She watched, mesmerized, as the pipes finally erupted, shooting cool, clear water over a thousand thirsty plants.

Within seconds, the air was filled with moisture. Rainbows and sunlight danced in the misty spray. The morning breeze carried it the few feet toward them, and she felt her face growing damp. She looked down, and his tanned hands sparkled with the mist.

“And how do I make you feel, Molly?” As if he hadn't even noticed the sprinklers, he unbuttoned her wet shirt slowly and slipped his damp fingers inside.

She couldn't answer him then. The water was cold, but his fingers were hot, and they moved slickly over her. Her lips opened slightly, letting the mist find its way in, tiny, cool needles of moisture against her tongue.

“How, Molly? How do I make you feel?” He whispered the words against her neck. But she didn't remember words. Oh, she had been right about his hands—they were designed for precision. Deftly, delicately, his fingers turning and touching with easy authority, he brought her to a trembling spike of desire.

“Jackson.” She put her hands up. She touched his wet, silken hair. She pressed back, looking for more. And she found it. His familiar, comfortable body was newly contoured, carved hard and powerful with desire. He pressed, too, and she moaned in the mist.

“Oh, my heavens. I didn't know anyone was in here!” The voice behind them seemed to come from another world. There was an awkward, scurrying bustle, and suddenly the world stopped dancing with rainbowed mist. The sprinklers subsided. And within seconds, only the slow, hollow plopping of the last drops of water remained.