Darrell shook his head sadly. “I disagree, but you ain’t listening.” His shoulders settled. “I got to get back.” He turned to go.
She grabbed his arm. Kissed his cheek. “Thank you, my friend,” she whispered. “I might not be obeying, but I do hear you.”
He sighed. “Guess that’s the best I can hope for right now.” He cast one more glare at Micah. “The girl’s got plenty of folks who’ll be watching you, my man. Best do right by her.”
Micah’s jaw flexed, but he nodded. “I’m trying.”
Clearly unconvinced, Darrell waved and ambled off.
Leaving Jezebel staring after him as she wondered what she’d gotten herself into.
“You look amazing.”
She jolted. Glanced down. “I’m barefoot,” she observed.
“I noticed. Cute toes.”
Her head jerked up. His face was still drawn, but he was making an effort to get past the awkwardness.
“My feet are too big to be cute.”
“You have this big complex, don’t you?”
“Try being the girl so tall she has to stand on the back row with the boys in seventh grade…and she towers over all of them.”
He grinned. “You’re shorter than me.”
“Not that much. Most men find that intimidating.”
He snorted. “Do I look intimidated?”
She took her time scanning.
Nope. What he looked was…hot. Black slacks and black T-shirt accentuated his shaggy black hair and framed those startling blue eyes. “I guess not.”
“What I am is hungry. You have shoes, right?”
“Somewhere.”
His eyes warmed. “Why don’t you get them, and we’ll get this whatever-it-is on the road.”
“Not a date,” she said.
“Not yet,” he answered.
Jezebel’s heart knocked hard within her chest. Speechless for one of the rare times in her life, she chose to scamper inside and simply grab her shoes.
At his best, Micah was aware that he’d never been what anyone would consider a conversationalist, however, he found his tongue all but frozen to the top of his mouth now. Usually, Jezebel required no help summoning words; she generally had enough for both of them.
Tonight, though, the drive was silent.
“Sorry I only have this truck,” he finally said.
“What?” She dragged herself from her thoughts. “Oh.” She waved off his concern and smiled faintly. “I’m not a car snob.” When it seemed she might fall quiet once more, she made a second effort. “My requirements from a vehicle are simply that it run and have a radio.”
“What about heater? A/C?”
She shrugged. “Nope, music first. I can put on or take off clothes. Um—” She cast a sideways glance. “I mean, you know…well, I mean I didn’t mean…”
For someone so dazzling, she was actually a little goofy. He grinned. “I didn’t read anything into your words just because you were once a stripper.”
“You could really make some sense of that?”
His smile widened. “It wouldn’t be the first time you babbled around me, Jezebel.” And he began to relax a little. She was talking now. Everything would work out.
“I do not babble.” She faced the front and crossed her arms.
“You do. Which is strange, in and of itself, as you’re the most terrifyingly resourceful, practical person I’ve ever met.”
“I am not—” Her gaze whipped to him. “I am?”
“Yes. I can’t say I like it.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not very damn comfortable lusting after a schoolmarm.”
Her eyes were lasers now. He nearly groaned. From the echoing silence, he could tell he had her full and complete attention. The atmosphere in the cab of the truck grew dense. Thick with more than he could sort out.
At last, she sniffed. “I’m hardly a schoolmarm. I’m barely educated.”
“Doesn’t matter. Anyway, you’re as smart as anyone I’ve encountered.”
Her jaw dropped. Then she bit her bottom lip, and he wanted to groan for a different reason.
She faced front again, then wheeled back. “Really? You see me as smart?”
“You don’t?”
She stared at him for a long time. “No one has ever said that to me in my whole life,” she said softly.
Inside him, warmth spread. “Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.” He glanced over, to see wonder stealing across her features. “Don’t you consider yourself intelligent?” he repeated.
Her voice was dreamy when she answered, “I guess I do.”
She fell quiet again, but now, the silence didn’t feel so lonely.
The place he’d brought her wasn’t swank or fussy; it was a blues joint that happened to serve great food, as well. More than half the faces were black and more than a few were old, life’s rough roads carved on their skin. She could read so much by simply watching their heads nod to the lyrics, their gnarled fingers tap out the soulful beat.
When the band took a break, she and Micah talked. She discovered a man with a wide range of interests. He might have lived most of his years in a tiny town, but his artistic vision and, she would guess, the severity of Charlotte’s health problems had given him insights beyond his age. In some ways, Micah was an old man masquerading as a young buck…except, the forces of nature and of his own body were conspiring to remind him that he was not ready for his twilight years. He was a male in his prime.
And prime he definitely was. Sitting at a small table, their chairs only inches apart, she was intensely aware of Micah as a man. A sexual being. She had to forcibly restrain herself from leaning toward him, a moon drawn into a sun’s orbit, though the gravitational forces would inevitably destroy it.
She was not in his league. He was on the verge of real fame, not a small-town boy anymore. He might have spent his earlier life certain that Three Pines held all he needed, but she had to wonder how long he would have been content, even had Charlotte lived.
Maybe his devotion to her would have kept him rooted there forever, but the fact remained that now he was a free agent, and a very talented one at that. All too soon, he would move on to the bigger stage, where he belonged.
Her fantasy might be that vine-covered cottage with babies and puppies, but he was destined for more.
He glanced at her just then and leaned nearer to whisper in her ear. “You okay?”
Was she? She had a lump in her throat for what might have been, but he’d been right when he said she was practical to her core. She summoned a smile. “Yes. The music’s wonderful.”
“Would you like to dance?”
She remembered their first night. First dance. What had happened next.
You’re playing with fire, girl.
Probably. But I’ll have memories when he’s gone.
“Yes,” she answered. “I believe I do.”
Their first dance hadn’t lasted long, Micah thought as he drew her into his arms. They’d gone from zero to hot sex with blinding speed. He planned to make this dance different.
He couldn’t say exactly why they were on a date tonight, except that the longer he spent around Jezebel Hart, a woman he was so sure he’d pegged clearly at the start, the more he realized he had yet to discover about her. Her physical appearance smacked a guy in the head and left his ears ringing; it was a continuing surprise to find out that what you saw on the surface was only the merest fraction of who she was.
And he was dogged by the sense that they’d gotten this whole relationship backward.
She really was, despite her protests and her past, more Victorian maiden than libertine. Maybe she had learned to use her body’s stun value as a tool or a defense, even a weapon, but the inner Jezebel was, in some ways, a prude.
She was also a scrapper. And fascinating as hell.
He was hard-pressed to credit what appealed to him most. Though she, like most women, he suspected, would balk at being called
sturdy, that was exactly what Jezebel was, much like his mother, now that he considered it, and Lily, too. Realizing that he didn’t have to be on guard every second, after all those years of vigilance, was a huge relief, though to admit so pained him.
But that didn’t mean that Jezebel was bulletproof. Her bossy manner hid a very tender heart. She deserved romance; what he’d gleaned about her earlier life told him she’d had little of it.
The mournful, bluesy notes wrapped around them, and he heard Jezebel sigh.
So he pulled her closer and let the music take over.
The silence in the truck on the way back hummed a different tune, more comfortable because they’d found much to like about each other, yet also buzzing with the remembered feel of body against body, of curves brushed against angles. Palms transmitting the messages their voices feared to say.
When he stopped in front of her door, he was grateful to note the bar shut down for the night and Darrell gone. He didn’t want the harsh glare of her self-appointed bodyguard to pierce the evening’s soft glow.
In some ways, Micah was more nervous than he’d ever been in his life, however absurd that might seem, given that they’d already been physically intimate with each other. That he was hardly inexperienced.
But this night was different.
For the first time since he’d been widowed, he would not simply have sex. Instead, he would make love.
For Jezebel’s sake, he was intent on doing it right, but he had no idea what that meant.
The dome light flared, and he realized that she was exiting. “Wait.”
When she faced him, her eyes were huge. In them, he could see how unsettled she herself felt, and her comprehension of his disquiet. Somehow, through all their missteps, they had learned some things about each other. Had become friends, yes.
But more than friends. He cared about Jezebel. He waited for the usual guilt to assault him, surprised to discover only twinges of it present.
He thought she might care about him, too, and that should make his next move easier.
It didn’t.
She smiled sadly at his protracted silence. “It’s okay, Micah. Really.” She slid from the seat. “I had a good time. Thank you.”
“So did I.” Another gaping lull in conversation.
“Maybe—”
“Don’t assume—”
They’d spoken at once.
“Ladies first.” He gestured to her.
She lifted one shoulder. “I was only going to assure you that this doesn’t obligate you to anything. It was a lovely evening, but I recognize that it wasn’t really a date.”
Unexpected anger surged. “What if I would like it to be one?”
She seemed startled. “Do you?”
He broke the connection. Stared out the windshield. Wondered.
“Right,” she said. The door clicked shut faintly, and she crossed in front of the headlights. Pulled her key from her bag.
She would let him go. Would demand nothing of him because she was so damn kind and generous. Defender of the weak, champion of lost causes—
He leaped from the driver’s side. Bridged the distance in a few long strides. Clasped her arm and whirled her around.
“I don’t have all the answers,” he growled. “I don’t know what the hell to do with my life or my cottage or much else, but I am sure of one thing, Jezebel.” Ruthlessly, he steadied his free hand, then tipped her chin up.
Her eyes were wet. He’d made her cry again, damn it.
Her frame shivered, but she forced it straight.
Her courage shamed him.
“I—” He swallowed. “I’m not good at words, Jezebel, but I wish I were. For the first time in longer than I can remember, this big hole inside me isn’t so huge anymore. Somehow you’re responsible.”
He glanced away, then back. “I refuse to be one of your charity cases, but—” He stopped, seeking a path through the jumble.
“But what?” she prompted.
He made himself meet her gaze. “I don’t want to leave tonight.”
Her lashes swept down, hiding her thoughts.
Then up. “You don’t have to.” She held out her hand.
Gratefully, he took it. She turned. Stuck the key in the lock.
“Jezebel.”
She halted.
“This is different. From before.”
She nodded. “I believe you.”
“I don’t—I can’t promise—”
She revolved, smothered his words with her fingers. “You don’t have to,” she whispered.
Then she replaced her fingers with her mouth in a kiss that tasted of tears and sweetness.
Now the silence was their ally, a veil to disguise all they feared, all they longed for…all they could not say. Dared not.
Hands spoke for them, instead. Lips. Tongues murmured no words, yet were the tender translators of a new language of uncommon grace.
By the glow of one fat candle, Micah wooed her. Let desire flick over her skin and his like so many flames, yet each time the heat built to unbearable proportions, he smothered it, then rekindled, until their skins were slick with sweat, their fingers grasping for purchase. Their minds lost to this world and locked in their own.
Jezebel threw her head back with a moan torn from her depths. “Micah, please…”
He denied the plea. “Not yet. Once more.” Arms shaking from the effort of holding himself apart from her, fiercely intent on giving her everything in his power, he patiently began again. Stirred the embers until the fire inside them whipped into ecstasy.
Jezebel wept when at last he entered her, and moisture stung his own eyes. They clung together as though marooned from everything familiar, and the power of their joining shuddered down his spine.
And when at last there was silence again, gratitude was woven into the spaces of it.
For the first time in more years than he could count, Micah felt warmth seep into the dead place that had been his heart.
The future was clouded but no longer choked with despair. He still had no idea where his road would lead…but he did not tread it with leaden feet.
Jezebel’s fingers danced lightly over his hair, smoothing it as if she could ease the tangles inside him. He lifted his head to tell her that she already had.
Her smile was a pretty secret, the age-old mystery known only to women, the Mona Lisa smile, Rossetti’s Proserpine. Helen of Troy meets the Good Witch Glinda.
As he studied her in bemusement, she lowered her lashes, and color stained her cheeks.
He stroked that soft, creamy skin. “I admire you.”
Her eyes flew open. “Why?”
“A lot of reasons, but among them your courage.”
Pleasure bloomed in her gaze. “I’m not so brave.”
“You are. I can only imagine what it was like for you to make your way on your own. For someone like you to bare yourself before strange men.”
Joy fled. She tensed and started to roll away.
He trapped her. “No. Don’t run from this. It’s honest praise. Doing so must have torn pieces out of you.”
She wouldn’t look at him. “I tried not to let it, but—” She shoved at him and scooted across the bed.
He caught her. Brought her back. “You know why I understand?”
“How could you?”
“In New York, I had to stand there with bits of my soul exposed under gallery lights while self-important jerks tried to tell me what my paintings meant. Had the nerve to put prices on them when they had no clue how it ripped at me to create them, how my guts lay bleeding on each canvas. That I could hardly stand to pick up a brush, because every time I did, it meant I was taking a step into life and away from—” He broke off.
“Charlotte?”
He could deny it, but there she was, the ghost in the bed.
He shoved to standing. “Yeah.” His hands raked through his hair, and he began to pace as the old restlessness gripped him. “Sorry.”
He paused.
She sat cross-legged in the center of the bed, the spread drawn up to cover her, drifting around her like sea foam. “I’ve said you can talk about her to me. I don’t mind.”
He was sure that she was sincere. “I’ve talked too much. Do you mind if I shower?”
Her face fell, and he damned himself for ruining the evening. “Sure. Go ahead.”
He took a step toward her. “Just let me be by myself for a minute, and I promise—”
“I told you I don’t expect any.”
He stared at her. “But you should. You’re entitled.”
She rose. “Maybe I’ll make a pot of tea.” She managed a smile. “The towels are beneath the sink, since there’s no linen closet. Make yourself at home. I’ll just be in the kitchen when you’re done.” She wrapped a sheet around herself and waited for him to give her privacy.
He owed her a lot more, but this, at least, he could do for her and not screw up, so he found his way to the bathroom and left her alone.
The contrast between the splendor of what they’d shared and his sudden distance rattled her. Jezebel dressed in a hurry in the most sexless garments she could find, an old pair of sweatpants and a paint-stained T-shirt. Over them, she donned a sweater. Though the night wasn’t chilly, she couldn’t seem to get warm.
The kettle was on, the teabags waiting in mugs. Honey and sugar and cream stood ready. She actually hoped Micah would refuse the offering and simply leave, but just in case, she hunted for a box of cookies she’d bought and stashed away.
Stashed. Oh, dear, sweet mercy. He was in the bathroom with—
She heard the bathroom door crash open. Through the bedroom, she saw him emerge, striding her way with a box in his hand.
Her mind refused to accept what she already knew.
“What is this?” he asked.
His face had lost all color. His eyes were hollow, his voice a rasp.
She couldn’t speak, only able to stare at him with her heart a sickening thump inside her chest.
“We used a condom. Every…damn…time.” He bit out each word as if it held a bitter taste. “Please tell me this is because of someone else. Someone before.”
The temptation to lie to him lay sweet on her tongue. How simple it would make everything. How easy for him to go.
Dream House Page 16
