Turner's Rainbow 2 - The Rainbow Promise (35 page)

Anger carried her through the afternoon, but by the time she returned to the house and fed the children, her anger had dissipated. When Luke came in and sat down to his solitary supper, she had difficulty leaving him alone in chilly silence as she had intended to do. He kept casting little sideways glances at her, guilty, uncomfortable looks that reminded her of a boy who knows he's in Dutch and can't figure out how to squirm out of it. It was infuriating to find that it worked on her, as it always did. She had never been able to maintain a decent anger with Luke for any length of time. Especially not now, with those dark smudges beneath his eyes and the lines of weariness on his too thin face.

As always, Luke expected too much of himself. He would work himself into the ground trying to escape the desire inside him. He would condemn and restrain himself beyond reason because there lived inside him the conviction that he was bad, that somehow he was always at fault. He put her on a pedestal, but he was ready to flay himself over every transgression.

Sarah sighed and sat down across from him at the table. She laid her hand across his. She could feel the tension vibrating in him. He was a man on the edge. It occurred to her that she could go to him tonight, dressed in her gown with her hair down, and he would pull her into his arms, unable to resist the temptation.

But she also knew how he would feel afterward, how he would blame himself for giving in. Luke never punished others, only himself, and he would put himself through hell for sleeping with her. She couldn't do that to him, no matter how hard it was to stay away. She refused to damage Luke's self-respect. All she could do was wait and hope that eventually he would realize that he wasn't responsible for her pain and would come willingly to her bed.

❧

Dovie looked across the table at Micah. She was getting used to seeing him there. She had lost count of how many Sundays he had had dinner with them.

She knew she ought to put a stop to it. She was drifting into dangerous territory. She was reaching the point where she approached Sundays with anticipation, even excitement. She looked forward to seeing Micah again, eager to engage once more in their lazy, sexy verbal sparring.

And that was risky. Micah Harrison was a traveling man. He wouldn't stay here long; he wouldn't put down roots. He wasn't the kind of man a woman like her should be interested in—or fall in love with.

Dovie shook that thought from her mind. She stood up. "Would you like any more coffee?" She looked at Micah, and he nodded, his eyes sliding down her like a caress. Dovie's voice was a little breathless as she turned toward Lurleen. "Mama?"

"No, sugar. I'm goin' over to Bessie's. She be steady havin' that ache in her back, and I better see how she doin'. I done told her, she got no business liftin' them heavy things like she do. But when did that woman ever listen to sense?"

"She must be like her sister," Dovie remarked, a smile touching her lips.

Lurleen laughed and shot her daughter a mockingly stem look. "Don't you go talkin' 'bout your mama like that."

"Yes, ma'am." Dovie's smile grew.

Micah watched her. He liked to see Dovie's smile. It was something rare and wonderful. It softened her face and touched her dark brown eyes with a faint gold. He thought about her smiling a lot, imagined her looking at him like that, only softer—and hotter.

Lurleen called a cheerful good-bye to them and left. Dovie brought a pot of coffee back from the kitchen. She leaned around Micah to refill his cup, so close he could smell her scent. Micah thought about turning and pressing his face against her, drinking in the sweet musky odor, reveling in the softness.

Dovie stepped back, setting the pot down on the table where Micah could reach it should he want it again. She sat down across from him. He got the message. She had seen the look in his face, and she wanted to make sure that there was a table between them.

"A man ever hurt you? Or you jus' naturally shy?"

Dovie's eyebrows rose. "I beg your pardon?"

Micah smiled. That prissy way she talked never failed to start a heat inside him. "You know what I mean. You sure always backtrack from me fast."

"Maybe I think you're dangerous."

"Then you oughta not be sittin' here alone with me."

"The thought had occurred to me."

Micah looked at her with a steady, unwavering gaze. Dovie stared back at him with all the calm she could muster. She knew it wasn't wise to be alone with this man—and as soon as Lurleen got back, she'd let her mother know exactly how she felt about that little bit of treachery. She ought to ask him to leave. Yet she couldn't open her mouth to say so. Her gaze shifted and fell to the table. She began to trace the whorl of the wood with her forefinger.

Micah watched her. She was as nervous as he'd ever seen Dovie, and It gave her an appealing air of vulnerability. For that reason he backed off. He took a sip of his coffee and began to talk about the Turners. He could see the relief in every line of Dovie's body. He wondered if there was any disappointment in her, as well.

"That Luke now, he goin' through hell," Micah commented.

"What makes you say that?" Dovie looked back up at him, glad to have a safe topic of conversation.

Micah shrugged. "He be sleepin' alone ever night."

Dovie felt the heat rising in her face. It wasn't so safe a topic after all. "He told you that?"

"Don't have to. It plain on his face. He look like a man that ain't had enough res' in weeks. He drive himself like a devil. She don't look too happy, either."

"I don't really think that this is a fit topic of conv—"

"He gonna put himself in the grave 'fore too long, if he don't watch it. They got something powerful 'tween them, them two, and it be killin' them to keep it in."

"You sound awfully concerned about these white folks of yours. I thought you didn't care anything about any white man." Dovie arched her brows challengingly.

"Maybe the way you think rubbin' off on me." Micah paused, and the faintest trace of a smile touched his lips. It was a smile that didn't make Dovie comfortable. "Or maybe I jus' got fellow feelin' for a man that been achin' for a woman too long."

Dovie jumped up and moved away from the table. One hand flew up to her hair as though to make sure it was still screwed tightly into its bun. It wouldn't have surprised her if it had come loose, just as everything inside her had at Micah's words. "Ah..." She glanced around, searching for something to say, and quickly. Her thoughts were flying around in her brain like buzzing bees, wild, furious, and loud, with nothing logical or decent that could be picked out to be said. She glanced into the kitchen. "Oh! Oh yes." Her mind found something ordinary and clung to it. "There's a cabinet in the kitchen that the, uh, door won't stay on. I— Mama thought you might fix it when you came today. That is, if you don't mind."

Micah watched her. She never once looked at him while she talked. He enjoyed her confusion; it was rare to see Dovie not in full control, and he liked it. He liked causing her to lose it. "Sure. I don't mind." He stood up and sauntered toward the kitchen. "Which one?"

"Which one what?"

Micah smiled. "Which door? Which cabinet?"

"Oh." Dovie caught his knowing smile, and it made her feel even more like a fool. He knew his effect on her and fully enjoyed it. She ought to throw him out. She already would have had he been any other man. She ought to at least lecture him on the way he had spoken to her. But she was afraid that would only make her appear even more foolish.

Dovie followed Micah into the kitchen and pointed out the offending door, standing a good three feet away from him as she did so. He glanced pointedly at where she stood, and though the smile wasn't there, she could see the amusement— and the satisfaction—in his eyes. Damn him! It pleased him to put her at such a disadvantage. She swung away, starting back to the living and dining area.

"Wait."

Dovie turned, trying her best to recapture the haughty expression she was normally so good at.

"Where're the tools?" She looked at him blankly. "To fix the door?"

"Oh!" She'd been so busy trying to pretend that he didn't affect her that she'd practically forgotten what she had asked him to do. "Uh, here." She went to a drawer and opened it. He came up close behind her and reached around her to take out the screwdriver. She could feel the heat of his body and his hard strength as his arm curved around her.

Dovie sidestepped out of his reach and left the kitchen. Her hands were trembling. She clasped them together and stood rigid, willing herself to be calm. She was, after all, a grown woman, one used to being in control. There was no reason for her to feel like this, as fragile and helpless as a boat tossed about upon the sea.

She busied herself cleaning up the table and carrying the dishes into the sink in the kitchen. She carefully avoided looking at Micah as he worked. Finally, when the table was cleared and her nerves had relaxed somewhat, Dovie poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table. She glanced into the kitchen and immediately wished that she had not.

Micah had removed his Sunday jacket and tie and rolled up his sleeves to work. The top button of his shirt was undone, exposing a narrow V of dark skin, glistening with the faint sheen of sweat. The muscles in his arms moved as he twisted the screwdriver, the long tendons pushing against his skin. How large his hands were, wide-palmed, with long, agile fingers. The paler skin on the inside of his hands was heavily callused; they would be rough to the touch.

She watched him work. He was so big that he dwarfed the kitchen, yet his large hands were light and quick, not clumsy. There was skill in him as well as strength, and intelligence, too. He was the kind of man you could be proud of, the kind you'd smile about when you introduced him around.

Dovie swallowed and looked away from him. That kind of thinking was dangerous. He wasn't the kind of man who could be her man. She wanted marriage; she wanted stability, Micah Harrison was a drifter He might seem almost domesticated, walking her home from church on Sundays and staying for dinner, repairing the little things that broke around the house. But he wasn't. He had too much wildness in him.

She remembered the sight of him on Turner's horse. There had been power in him, and freedom. He didn't fit here; he belonged in that wild country where he had been born. And he would return to it before long, while she would stay here.

That was why it did no good to look at him and feel the things she did inside; why she ought to stop herself before it was too late.

Micah turned, as though he had felt her gaze upon him. Dovie couldn't look away. He rose slowly, lithely to his feet and came toward her. The air was suddenly twice as hot. She could hardly breathe. A gust of breeze lifted the curtain and curled around her in a cool caress. He had seen her thoughts on her face. She ought to deny them. She ought to tell him to stop, to go away. But she couldn't say anything. She hadn't the strength; the fire in his eyes drained it from her. Anyway, she'd never been good at lying.

"Dovie." His voice was low, a mere breath of sound. He stopped in front of her, so tall she had to crane her head back to see him. She dropped her gaze. "Baby."

Micah's hands touched her hair. She felt his fingers working on the knot of her hair, unfastening it with quick, sure movements. She should protest. But the sensations running through her at his touch were too sweet to stop. She wanted only to lean into him. Her hair came loose and tumbled down around her head, free. His fingers sank into her hair, gathering it up into thick handful s.

"You sure a beautiful woman. Sometime I think lookin' at you's all a man could ask for. But right now, it ain't enough."

He smoothed her hair from her face, gently pressing her head back until she was looking up at him. He loomed over her, but somehow his size wasn't frightening; it was exciting. He slid his hands down her hair and onto her shoulders. He pulled her up from her chair. Dovie was a tall woman, but she was small against him. Her hands came up between them and rested on his chest. She was breathless, her heart pounding, and she didn't know whether to run or to throw herself into his arms.

His hands moved down her back, crossing to pull her in tight against him, and he kissed her. Dovie went up on tiptoe to meet his mouth. The kiss went on and on, unending, thrilling, and all the time he pressed her into him tighter and higher, until her feet were dangling off the floor and the breath was almost squeezed from her chest. She didn't protest. She hardly noticed. There was nothing in the world for her at that moment but his mouth and his arms around her.

Dovie clung to him, returning his kiss passionately and straining to be closer to him. For once, all thought and logic fled her, and she was aware of nothing but pure, raw emotion. His arm went under her bottom, pulling her up and into him, so that she felt the force of his hard maleness. She squirmed against him, wanting to feel it fully. There was an ache between her legs that made her yearn and hunger and... She moved her legs restlessly, and he groaned.

"Oh, sugar." He made a sound that was part laugh and part pain. "I want you." He released her slowly, letting her slide down until her feet touched the floor. Dovie gazed up at him, her eyes soft and luminous.

"Mama won't be home all afternoon. She always stays the whole day when she goes to Bessie's."

She could feel the tremor in his arms, lightly looped around her. "You tellin' me you want me to stay?"

"Yes." Her voice was as unsteady as the heart rocketing about inside her chest, but it was passion, not uncertainty, that made it so. There was no doubt in her, only desire and rushing, pounding need. His kiss, his touch had turned her into fire. "I want you to stay."

"I will. Oh. baby, I will."

He lifted her into his arms and carried her into the small bedroom that was hers. There he set her on her feet and began to unfasten the multitude of little round buttons down the front of her shirtwaist. His big hands were clumsy on the tiny buttons, and with a smile she moved his hands aside and unfastened them herself. He watched her, his eyes and mouth growing heavy with passion as bit by bit she revealed herself to him until she stood clad in only her white cotton chemise and petticoat.

She reached up to untie the ribbon of her chemise, but he stopped her. He ran his fingers along the edge of the garment, the cotton white against her coffee and cream skin. He untied the bow and smoothed the puckers between his forefingers and thumb, loosening the top. The straps slipped down onto her arms, and the material eased lower. It caught on the tips of her breasts, high and pointed, then slid down to her waist.

He sucked in his breath. She was as beautiful as he had ever thought she would be, slender and smooth skinned, with taut, full breasts. Her dark nipples were hard and prominent, urging his touch. But he did not touch her yet. Instead, his hands went to the drawstring at her waist and untied it, then pulled her remaining underclothes from her, revealing all of her to his gaze.

She was long legged, just as he had imagined, her buttocks tight and firm. He reached out his hand to touch her. His hand was dark against her skin as he slid it down from her shoulder over the soft mound of her breast and onto her stomach. Her flesh quivered beneath his touch, and her eyes, fastened on his face, were huge and dark, full of yearning and a touch of fear.