The Temptation of Sean MacNeill (8 page)

Rachel looked almost as distressed as her daughter.

"Maybe you and Jackie can get together another time." She turned to the pretty black woman standing back with her children, watching the show. "
Dee
, why don't I call—"

"But Mr. Pittman said he'd take us on the Tilt-A-Whirl!" Lindsey wailed.

Rachel's lips firmed. "Another time."

"There's not going to
be
another time. The fair's almost over."

"I'm sorry, honey, but—"

"You're not sorry at all. You don't want me to have any fun."

"I just need you and Chris to come home now."

Lindsey was hurting. And she reached for words that would hurt back, hurling them at her mother with a child's accuracy and ruthlessness. "I always have to go where you say. It doesn't matter what I want. You said we had to move. You said we had to live with Grandma. I hate it at Grandma's."

Rachel turned as white as stripped pine.

Remembering her efforts the day they all moved in, the framed flowers over her daughter's bed, Sean felt a surge of protective anger. "Look, your mom has done her damnedest to make a home for you. You should show her the respect she deserves."

"I don't have to listen to you. You're not my father."

"Thank God for that."

"This is not helpful," Rachel said tightly. "Lindsey, we're leaving. Now."

"I won't."

Sean blew an exasperated breath. He didn't need this. But then, neither did her mother. "You've got your marching orders. You want me to carry you out of here?"

"You wouldn't."

It was a challenge. And the MacNeills never backed down from a challenge, even when the would-be opponent was four-foot-eight and wore pink barrettes. "Try me,
dollface
."

Rachel's friend chuckled. Off to one side with the four boys, her husband watched as the argument got booted from one player to another. Like a damn soccer match. And Rachel was frowning at Sean like he'd just stolen the ball.

But Lindsey, bless her obstinate little heart, wasn't sure he wouldn't carry through on his threat. Rather than risk humiliation in front of her new pal, she shot him a dark look and flounced off with one of those peculiarly feminine noises he usually found kind of cute. Yeah, yeah, you hate me, he thought.

Rachel visibly pulled it together. "Chris, time to go.
Dee
, thanks."

"Anytime. I'll call you about the girls."

"I'll walk you to your car," Sean said. Rachel's look was harder to read than her daughter's, but it sure didn't give him a warm, fuzzy feeling inside. "No, thanks. You've done enough already."

"I'll walk you to your car," he repeated. He wasn't leaving her to encounter Friendly Frankie in the parking lot.

She looked from Lindsey's stiff back to her friend's amused face before she gave in. "Fine." Handing him the three-foot-tall spotted dog, she stalked after her daughter.

"Nice to meet you," Sean told the other family.

The woman's dark eyes brightened with appreciation. "Oh, honey, it's been a pleasure."

He lengthened his stride to go after Rachel. He'd never had so much trouble keeping up with a woman. Chris was practically trotting in her wake.

"Take it easy," he said when he reached her side.

"Sorry." She didn't sound sorry. But she shortened her steps.

"Not 'slow down.' I meant, loosen up."

"Easy for you to say."

He wouldn't feel miffed. Hell, she was right. Lindsey wasn't his kid. "You shouldn't get so clutched up about things you can't control."

"That's the problem. There are too many things I can't control right now."

He didn't think they were just talking about Lindsey anymore. "Like your buddy from the bandstand?"

She didn't answer. They walked through a playing field full of cars, the long grass flattened by fair traffic. Behind them, brassy music carried from the Ferris wheel. A chorus of cicadas rose raggedly from the trees.

"Rachel." He didn't know what to say to her. In the MacNeill family, Patrick was the hero, Con the problem solver. Sean was simply "good with his hands." And he didn't fool himself that a rubdown was what Rachel needed now. "What can I do?"

"Nothing." She inhaled sharply. Forced a smile. "There's nothing anyone can do. Don't worry about it."

Good advice. But as Sean watched Rachel unlock her mother's car and load her cranky children into the back seat, he wasn't at all sure he was going to follow it.

* * *

Rachel outran her demons, her rubber soles striking the black road in even rhythm. At five-thirty in the morning after a holiday weekend, porch lights were doused. Cars sat idle in dark driveways. Only the birds tuning in the trees offered counterpoint to the chorus in her head.

It's your family you've got to be concerned about.

A thousand dollars extra. A month. Until the loan's paid off.

And Sean's voice, earnest and concerned.
What can I do?

Nothing.

There's nothing anyone can do.

She pushed herself up the hill, heart pounding. Her breath labored. She counted, timing each quick inhale and slow exhale against her thumping feet. She ran through exhaustion and fear. She ran alone, and the voices kept pace.

By the time she reached the bottom of her mother's driveway, sweat soaked her running bra and the waistband of her shorts. Her legs shook. She bent double, blowing bard.

She had to go in, she reminded herself. She had to face her children and her students, her mother's questions and Bilotti's threats. There was no going back on the road her marriage had forced her along. She could only go forward, one hard step at a time.

Slowly, she straightened, supporting herself with her hands on her thighs. And saw Sean, watching from the top of the drive.

He wore rumpled jeans low on lean hips and an earring. Nothing else. Not even shoes. His broad chest was lightly furred with hair that arrowed down his abdomen. His feet were bare. Judging from his unshaven jaw and finger-combed hair, he hadn't been up that long. But he was drinking. At least, he cradled a tall plastic tumbler in one hand as he watched her.

He started down the driveway, his big bare feet padding carefully over the
graveL
She continued to suck in air, willing her heart to slow.

"Here." He offered the full cup.

She hesitated. She was thirsty, but…

"Orange juice. Straight."

"Thank you."

The liquid was cold on her teeth and sweet on her tongue and wet at the back of her throat. She turned the cup to read the lettering on the side. "'Nothing is fool-proof to a fool with the right tools.'" She almost smiled as she handed it back.

"There it is," he said with satisfaction. "You run every morning?"

She wiped her mouth with the heel of her palm. She wished she had more clothes on. She wished he did. "Only when I can't sleep."

"Maybe I should try it."

She felt a pang of sympathy. Of guilt. "Are you having problems sleeping? Is it the couch? Because—"

He shook his head. "It's not the couch, Rachel. It's you."

She felt herself gaping and snapped her mouth shut fast enough to get whiplash. He turned casually away, as if he hadn't said anything out of the ordinary. And maybe he hadn't. Maybe he was just used to delivering come-on lines.

"Coffee's inside," he remarked over his shoulder. "Want a cup?"

Her run had cleared her head of nightmares. But she was tempted by the respite he offered, quiet words and controlled attraction, before she trudged to the house and resumed her "mommy" mantle.

"Coffee would be good."

"You haven't tried my coffee yet. I'm not making any promises."

She didn't want promises. "I'll take my chances," she said.

He'd done more work in the garage, she saw. Secreted away behind the unfinished furniture, in the back corner with her green velvet couch, he'd set up a hot plate and
minifridge
. An iron lamp glowed from one of his own tables, and a braided rug warmed the concrete floor. She saw books—with a start she recognized Steinbeck's King Arthur and Twain's Huck Finn along with the latest Dick Francis mystery—and a child's drawing stuck with a magnet to the fridge.

"This is … cozy," she said.

"You were expecting beer cans and racing magazines?"

"Am I that predictable?" she asked ruefully.

He shrugged. "Maybe you just think I am." He handed her a maroon mug without a slogan on its side. "I've done the slob bachelor thing. It's not very comfortable after a while."

She sipped the hot coffee with appreciation. "Well, your mother obviously raised you right."

"Oh, yeah. Dad was a marine. Mom was a trauma nurse. He ran a tight ship, and she was into clean hands and hospital corners." He grinned. "Plus, my brothers pounded on me if I didn't do my share."

The story explained his readiness to draft her children when there was work to be done.

"Last night, with Lindsey…" She hesitated. "I'm sorry if I overreacted. I know you were trying to help."

He poured his own coffee and sat on the rug beside the sofa. Even slouching, his head came above her knees. She fought the temptation to reach out, to test the silk of his hair with her fingers. "'S okay. You've got your hands full with that one, though, don't you?"

Rachel stiffened in her daughter's defense. "Lindsey's going through a very difficult time right now."

He raised an eyebrow. "So is her brother. Hell, so are you."

"At her age, she's having more trouble adjusting to a new school. New friends. New everything. And she hasn't really been herself since … since Doug died."

He sat up straighter, dark brows drawing together. "She didn't find him, did she?"

"No." Rachel stared into the depths of her mug, trying not to see. Trying not to remember Doug's gray, distended face lolling against the headrest of the driver's seat as she coughed and cried and searched frantically for the keys. "No. I did."

He swore softly. "I'm sorry."

"Thank you." She clutched her coffee tighter, for warmth.

"In the house?"

"No." She was grateful for that, at least. "He rigged a hose from the exhaust pipe… Doug was a car dealer."

He nodded, to show he knew or to encourage her to continue. She didn't need encouragement. After months of silence, her stifled feelings bubbled out like foam from a can of soda.

"I remember feeling surprised because it was a brand-new
Towncar
, and Doug was always so careful of things like the upholstery… So stupid. Doug was dead, and I was worried about getting the damn car cleaned."

"Shock," Sean said briefly and sympathetically. "It takes people that way sometimes."

She shuddered. "I'm not a warm person, you know. Not like my mother. Undemonstrative. That's what Doug said."

"I don't think you're cold."

She fixed him with a straight look. "That's sex."

"No. It's the way you are with your kids, your mother. You're a nice woman, Rachel."

His assessment warmed her more than the coffee between her hands. He was being too kind. No matter how seductive she found his comfort, no matter how tempting his understanding, she couldn't let him get the wrong idea about where this relationship was headed. She couldn't let herself get ideas.

"Oh, and you're the expert on women."

"I've known a few."

"But never married."

"No."

"Why not?" she challenged him.

"I was ready to get married once," he said, surprising her. "I was all of eighteen and ready to be a big man, like my daddy." He took a sip of coffee, cradling the mug in one hand. "Like my brothers."

"I'm sorry." The bitterness in his voice sent her mind whirling through the possibilities. She couldn't imagine any teenage girl turning down Sean MacNeill. "Did she … die?"

He let out a crack of laughter. "Die? God, no."

Her cheeks burned at her mistake. She ducked her head. "I'm sorry, I just thought…"

His eyes were alight with tenderness and amusement. "Thanks. But it wasn't anything like that."

"Then she wasn't ready to get married."

The amusement died. He looked away. "No, she was ready. Just not to me."

"I'm so sorry."

He shrugged. "Yeah, well, it works out that way sometimes. I hear she's happy."

"I think she was stupid."

"Right." His wave encompassed the dim garage. "Look at all she gave up."

"You're very talented."

"I'm very unemployed."

Hadn't she cautioned herself about that very thing? And yet she didn't like hearing him run himself down. "What about your furniture?"

"What about it?"

"Well, you make it. Do you sell it?"