Tides of Passion (15 page)

Setting the bowl on the floor, he dragged a nearby chair over, swung it around, straddled the seat, and folded his arms along the back. His gaze never left her as his brow wrinkled in thought. "I thought you were either playing with me, like you'd changed your mind and couldn't come right out and tell me." He rested his chin on his wrist and regarded her with a wary expression.

"Or," she prompted, her skin beginning to feel stiff as new leather with a layer of mud on top.

His gaze drifted. "I figured you had a man up here with you."

She couldn't contain the spurt of laughter. "A man? When would I have had time to find him?"

"I've heard a couple of the fellas in town say they're planning to ask you... ah, heck." He slapped the chair back on its hind legs. "Mark my words: you'd better be careful."

She did laugh then, cracking his handiwork. "What about me sitting here half naked with you? Is that your idea of me being careful?"

His gaze locked with hers.
I'm different
, he wanted to say.

But that was a hard declaration to make with a respectable erection filling his trousers, and the chair he grasped like a lifeline the only thing keeping him from jumping on her. The paste he had slathered everywhere he could get it had helped.

Only, she looked beautiful despite the mess.

"This is different," is what he finally came up with.
Great, Zach, just great
.

"Different? Do tell."

"I can control myself. Some of the men interesting in asking you to supper at Christabel's or out for a walk along the wharf may not be able to. They see a pretty woman climbing up on a crate, shaking her fist and riling up the whole town, they hear that clipped accent and the snappy words, and think, she'll be a hell of a time in bed. You're confounding the lot of them."

Didn't this happen in New York City? How naïve was she?

"Is that what you thought the first time you saw me? A hell of a time in bed?"

"Irish, I haven't put
woman
and
bed
in the same sentence for over two years. Thinking or speaking." He pulled at his bottom lip, trying to recall the first time he laid eyes on her. "Okay, what did I think? Was it, 'looks like she's gonna be a damned nuisance'? Yeah, that was it. I remember
distinctly
, to use one of your favorite words. Dis-tinct-ly." He'd also thought, slim ankles, round bottom, magnificent lips.

And glorious hair. Oh, the woman had a fine head of hair.

He watched her caked-up, robin's red cheeks crinkle with displeasure. "If we're only friends, why worry if another man is up here with me? Isn't that permissible? Are we establishing restrictions, Constable?"

"No!" He leapt from the chair, reaching to steady it as it rocked from side to side. "
No
." Striding to the window, he flicked the curtain aside, gauging how much longer until sundown. Knowing women the tiny bit he did, he reckoned one whose face looked like hers wouldn't want to leave her hiding place before dark. Opening the window, he breathed deeply of the fresh air pouring into the room. "That isn't it."

"Then what
is
it?"

Jealousy? Close.

Mixed with a healthy dose of rage. He rather felt as if he'd discovered Savannah M. Connor, uncovered this tremendously valuable treasure that no one else truly understood. Other men saw her beauty, sure, who wouldn't? But did they see that she was funny and bright and so incredibly earnest that it made your teeth ache? Did they see the yearning in her wide emerald eyes when she looked at a child as if she was afraid to touch for fear they'd reject her? Did they hear the passion in her voice when she talked about all those damned women she thought she was helping?

He had
.

And he didn't want any of the salty bastards in town to hurt her, is all. A piercing dart of guilt pricked him. Was it so dreadful for him to feel
something
for another woman? Nothing like love but... respect and concern? Did that mean he didn't love Hannah any longer? Did it mean she was finally, truly gone from his life?

Glancing at Savannah, he studied her as she wiped her face with the rag he'd brought from the washroom. A feeling like the one he often felt when he looked at Rory swept over him. Affection and contentment and misery wrapped into one cumbersome bundle.

Boy, that just beat all.

Why her? Why not Mrs. Brand, who had been widowed for longer than he had and had made her interest known on more than one occasion? At the spring picnic and last month at the Gillard's wedding reception.

Why not her?

He grunted. Something about Savannah Connor got to him. That was about as simply as he could put it.

Sighing, he turned, propping his hip on the window ledge. So he cared about her in a friendly fashion. Wasn't that better if their relationship became intimate? Better that than pretending, just to get close to her. He had never been good at feigning feeling, even during his wild days. What you saw was what you got. It hurt him more often than it helped but caused less confusion.

Besides, it was useless to try and hide anything. The old Garrett protective instinct was kicking like a healthy mule. No doubt about it. He
knew
that feeling.

"I don't want you to get hurt," he snapped, mostly directing the statement out the window. "Anything wrong with that?"

Her eyes appeared above the limp rag—stunned, if her expression told the right story.

"My mother died when I was twenty. I came home from piloting to find myself instant papa to Noah and Caleb. Lord, they used to fight something awful. About the most contrary two you'd ever want to meet. Body size, looks, interests. All of it." Pushing off the ledge, he paced to Noah's desk and fingered a letter opener he remembered his brother having as a kid. "One day, about ten years back, Caleb lost his temper and got into it with Noah, who, hurt and angry, ran off. I gave them both bad advice, and Noah didn't come back for ten years. For ten years, I didn't know if he was dead or alive. Nothing. But I did know I had failed them. Caleb, Noah, and my mother."

Then there was Hannah. That failure was too hard to talk about, too painful by far.

He traced the letter opener along a jagged scratch in the desk. "I hardly had time to grow up before I was taking care of people. My mother, my brothers, my wife." He wiped at the moisture on his brow. "And of course, Rory. Add to that the entire town and every crew that sails inside my boundaries. So if I throw some of that caring your way, I mean to tell you that that's just the way it'll have to be. If we are, or we become, involved. Cause I won't be able to change it."

Savannah folded the washrag into a tight square, her lips pressed to hide what he suspected was a smile. "What would you compare this caring to? Friend? Sister? Mother?"

Nodding, he clicked his tongue against his teeth. "The first one sounds good to me. The last two kinda make me feel funny." His gaze sharpened. "Is that fine? It's not insulting, is it? I mean, I'm not good at lying, and we both know we're not in—"

"Whoa, whoa, to use one of
your
favorite words." Savannah walked across the room, halting only when the tips of her shoes touched his boots. Extending her hand, she smiled. Despite the gritty white smudges on her face, she looked gorgeous. "Friends sounds lovely. Nothing more, nothing less. When one of us wants out, we tell the other. No pretences, no games, complete discretion. End of story."

Zach tilted his head, studying her, thinking it sounded too good to be true. When had any man ever had a relationship with a woman packaged up as neat and tidy as this one? It sure sounded nice. Even—no,
especially
—the friends part.

He had friends, of course, and family.

But he'd be damned if he wasn't tired of Caleb teasing him about getting married again. What about Christabel sending her unattached women friends to the jail with cakes, cookies, and those simpering smiles? And he loved Rory to death, but a person couldn't expect broad levels of companionship from a seven-year-old. Come to think of it, he couldn't picture a soul he acted himself around. That man who didn't feel like being Mr. Responsible all the time, who wanted to be
normal
.

Before he changed his mind, Zach took her hand and sealed his deal with his Irish devil.

* * *

He lay in bed later that night, estimating how long it would take a tolerable case of sunburn to heal. Two days? Three? Had to give her at least that much time. Even if Savannah wasn't in pain, she wouldn't feel pretty. And there wasn't much you could do with a woman who didn't feel
pretty
.

Especially what he had in mind.

Acting the friend and keeping his lustful thoughts to himself, he had escorted her home under cover of darkness, the glow from what Savannah agreed were too few streetlamps lighting their way. She had told him about her family in New York. Bits and pieces, nothing substantial. As if she couldn't bear to talk about it for long. Her father and brother sounded like narrow-minded bullies. Zach had kept his opinions—and the sorrow he felt for her—to himself.

Actually, once he stopped trying to catch a glimpse of her trim ankles below her flapping skirt, or the curve of her breast when she was looking the other direction, he had really enjoyed talking to her. He hated struggling to fill every moment with meaningless chatter. Savannah wasn't bothered by brief lulls in conversation. Men couldn't think as quickly as women when it came to talking. It was one of the reasons Zach avoided social functions.

Avoided women, he supposed.

She told him about an article she'd written for some women's journal, detailing a proposal for the vote in South Dakota or Utah or somewhere out west. With her eyes shining and her hands flapping to punctuate each comment, he had found himself thinking,
Jesus, she's exquisite
. Most of it was just imagination at this point, but he imaged a lush body with a surprising bit of muscle thrown in. A flat tummy. Long legs. From the looking and touching he'd done, he was pretty sure about those two.

And her breasts... ah, he had missed breasts. Cupping them, tasting them, drawing a taut nipple into his mouth and rolling it between his teeth. He didn't understand exactly what was so fascinating about nipples.

But he understood he was fascinated.

Dimming the lamp, he rolled to his side. The crackle of paper reminded him. Tossing the magazine to the floor, he sighed in the darkness. The article Savannah had written discussed the possibility for more equal partnerships between men and women after the turn of the century. It was the one she had danced in the street with excitement about. She had insisted he take it home and read it, had even run inside while he waited on the walk outside Miss Vin's, avoiding the curious glances and knowing smiles. He'd have to be careful about escorting her home too often. She would have to be careful, too.

He grunted.
Yeah, right
.

Laughing, he stacked his hands behind his head.

He hadn't felt like this over a woman—itchy and feverish and impatient—in a long time. Maybe ever. A positive change from his feelings before Savannah arrived: restless, cranky, and dissatisfied. Hannah had made him feel loved and secure but never antsy. Whatever Savannah Connor had done to him, whatever spell she'd cast, he hoped she could undo.

Her loving better be some kind of a strong antidote.

She was too smart not to realize what she was doing to him, wasn't she? Those big words weren't just for show. Though she was a curious mix of innocence and experience. She seemed to know things, things he figured a woman was simply born knowing.

Other things brought a completely blank look.

Savannah's article rolled to the front of his mind. Along with it came a considerable twinge of guilt. Was what he was planning to do going to keep her from having a chance to marry? Maybe even an eligible man in this very town? Men still liked to wed virgins, he assumed. Dr. Leland had been searching for one high and low since Elle broke his heart.

Puffed-up, arrogant peacock, the doctor was. Not a friend of any Garrett, but he and his tailored pinstripes might be the type to suit a woman like her. On the outside, it wouldn't seem that way. Why she'd agreed to test the water with
him
, he couldn't say. His education ran an inch to her mile, and he surely wasn't the handsomest man she'd had the pleasure to meet. Not counting all that, she actually seemed as attracted to him as he was to her. Maybe that saying about opposites had a kernel of truth to it.

Picturing Savannah in the snappy green skirt and shirtwaist she'd worn today, looking fresh as a flower even with the baking-soda paste slathered on, he couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to undress her.

"Oh, hell," he groaned and kicked the sheet to the floor.

Stalking to the wardrobe, he tugged on a pair of trousers and a ragged shirt he kept for garden duty and painting. A walk along the wharf would calm him. It always did. Being near the water, enveloped in a thick, salty mist, tasting it on his lips and feeling it coat his skin, made him breathe easier. It made troubles fade into the distance when his mind was filled with the roar of the sea.

He must have spent a hundred nights since Hannah's death sitting on a scarred dock and staring into inky-black waves. At least this time, a goddamn nightmare wasn't driving him from his bed.

Getting Savannah Connor
into
it was the problem.

Chapter 8