Touchstone

by Sharon Sala

  A slight frown creased her forehead. “It feels good on my skin,” she said shortly. “Washes away the hospital scent.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly.

  Right now she didn’t want to think about how close her mother was to death. “It’s no one’s fault. It just is.”

  Houston took her by the hand and led her toward the house.

  “You never did say why you’re here so early,” Rachel prompted.

  Houston stopped at her front door and turned, piercing her with a look and an answer that struck her mute.

  “I was hungry for you.”

  Her purse slid off her shoulder and onto the porch as she stared up at him. Then her arms went around his neck and her lips found his mouth. Someone groaned. Someone laughed. Softly, but enough to get the point across that unless they got themselves inside, they were about to make love in plain sight.

  A few moments later Houston shut the door, closing them in and the rain out. Water ran from her hair into her face, and there was a widening puddle beneath their feet. Houston arched an eyebrow in a questioning look. Rachel reached for the top snap on his shirt. After that, it was simply a matter of time until they were upstairs and stretched out across her bed, their wet clothes in a pile at the front door where they’d left them.

  Houston rolled over on his back, pulling her with him until she was straddling his legs and his hands were cupping her breasts. Her hair was wet against her back. It felt good against the building heat in her body.

  “Ah, Cherokee, you are so beautiful,” Houston whispered.

  Rachel grabbed his wrists and then leaned forward, pinning his arms above his head as she went for his mouth. He groaned and broke free of her grasp, then held her fast. With one hand cupping the back of her head and the other splayed across the curve of her backside, he stole both her breath and her kisses until she couldn’t think straight.

  “Love you, love you, love you,” Rachel whispered.

  “I know, baby, I know,” Houston said. She was trembling beneath his touch. Her breath was little more than short, urgent gasps as he slipped his fingers between her legs and began to stroke the slick, hard nub beneath his fingertips.

  She shuddered, clutching at his shoulders until her nails were digging into his flesh. The heat continued to build.

  “I want you, Houston. I want you now.”

  She reached for him, curling her fingers around the hard shaft of him surging against her thigh. She heard him groan, then she closed her eyes, savoring the sensation of becoming complete as Houston slipped himself inside her.

  “Oh God,” she whispered, and it was more a prayer than a remark. “Oh, Houston. So good. So unbelievably good.”

  He started to move, and then the sensation of their bodies in flight was all she could feel. The simple act of breathing faded into the background of her mind, and nothing mattered except chasing the addictive ebb and flow of making love.

  In and out.

  Hard to soft.

  Hot flesh.

  Rain-washed skin.

  Pleas and promises.

  All of them shattering in the moment of climax.

  Then silence. Shared, satiated silence.

  For a time neither moved, and the only sound to be heard was the hammering of raindrops on the roof above their heads.

  The phone rang.

  Rachel jerked, yanked rudely from her reverie to the reality of the world in which she now lived. She turned away from the window and picked up the receiver.

  “Hello.”

  “Rachel, it’s me, Maris. Tom Mikeowitz is on his way over to pick you up. I’m going to be about fifteen minutes late. You two go on to the restaurant and claim our table. Order yourself a drink. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “If you’d rather postpone this until another day, it’s fine with me,” Rachel offered.

  “No, no!” Maris cried. “We need to talk. Jules wants to do the next Timeless shoot from Egypt, in front of the pyramids.”

  Rachel froze. “Egypt?”

  Maris laughed. “Yes, isn’t it exciting? Something about ancient queens and camels and . . . oh, I don’t know. We’ll talk as soon as I get there.”

  “Yes, all right,” Rachel said, and hung up the phone. Then she glanced at her watch and dialed the concierge. “This is Rachel Austin. My agent is on his way over. Please let me know as soon as he arrives; I’ll come down. We’re on a tight schedule today.”

  “Yes, Miss Austin,” the young man said.

  Rachel hung up again and headed for the front closet to get her umbrella. This time she had no urge to get wet. In this business, image was everything.

  Downstairs, Beatty Andrews got the message. A few minutes later a yellow cab turned a corner and headed his way. From where he was standing, he recognized the short, balding man who he now knew was Rachel’s agent. He didn’t know his name, but he liked the man okay. Much better than the Farrier man who often escorted her out at night.

  The driver made a quick swerve to the curb and pulled to a splashing halt, showering Beatty’s pants legs with dirty water. He frowned and cursed beneath his breath as Tom Mikeowitz started to get out of the cab.

  “Sir, please wait.”

  Mikeowitz hesitated. “Yes?”

  “Miss Austin asked to be notified of your arrival. She said she would meet you down here.”

  Mikeowitz nodded and settled back in the seat.

  A short while later Rachel came hurrying through the lobby toward the door. Beatty’s heartbeat quickened. Her dress was short and red, and he didn’t think he’d ever seen legs that long or skin so beautiful in his life. Remembering that they’d made love together only this morning made him feel powerful and strong.

  “Miss Austin, you look beautiful today,” he said softly as he opened the cab door.

  But Rachel was still trying to digest the thought of going to Egypt, and she barely paid the doorman notice.

  “Thank you,” she said, and quickly ducked into the cab, anxious not to get wet.

  Moments later her cab disappeared into the traffic, leaving Beatty alone with his frustration. She was different now from the woman she’d been when she first arrived. He didn’t like to think that his Rachel was becoming crass and hard like all the rest of the beautiful people, but it seemed to him that it was so. She used to speak to him personally. Used to look him in the eyes. Now even her smiles were missing. Their relationship was changing, and Beatty didn’t like it.

  If Rachel had known what chaos her cavalier attitude would cause, she might have done things differently. But she didn’t, and the drabness of Beatty Andrews’s life continued to darken.

  Houston stood beside his pickup truck, watching as Kenny Monday ran back and forth between the drilling rig and his car.

  He didn’t know what the hell was going on, but he figured that when there was something to tell, Kenny would unload.

  He looked up, letting his gaze follow the silhouette of the air rig, which was a state-of-the-art model. A shiver ran through him as he considered what was playing out before his eyes. It would be too damned ironic if he actually made any money out of this scheme. The only woman he ever loved had left him because he was poor, and now that it looked as if his circumstances might change, it didn’t matter. She was already a jump ahead of him in the money department, too. God only knew what kind of salary she was pulling in, but he hoped it was enough to satisfy the emptiness inside her that his love couldn’t fill.

  A whoop of laughter sounded. He turned. Kenny was coming at him, waving a handful of papers and pointing to the rig. Houston’s heart skipped a beat as he watched the skinny man running. Then he reminded himself, Don’t count on it, Houston. Don’t count on anything except yourself.

  “So?” Houston asked.

  Kenny was grinning from ear to ear.

  “Damn, I’m good,” he crowed.

  Houston couldn’t help but grin in return. “I always did think humility was your best feature.”


  Kenny laughed aloud. “It’s down there, just like I said it would be. You, my friend, are going to be one rich son of a bitch.”

  A swift spurt of joy came and went. Houston stuffed his hands in his pockets and then leaned against the fender of his truck.

  “I think I’ll save my hooray for later.”

  Kenny kept grinning. “You do that, bub. We start drilling next Monday. By Thursday—Friday at the latest—you’ll wear the hell out of hooray.”

  Houston’s mouth dropped. “That soon? How can that be?”

  “Technology, my friend. Technology.”

  "

  Eight

  Rachel’s lunch with Maris was long and, for the most part, surreal. Between the deference of the waiters and the opulence of the surroundings, it all seemed staged. Even though her face had made the cover of more than one magazine, as well as a Times Square billboard, she felt no different inside. In Mirage she had always been on the outskirts of acceptability. And now, even though she might be counted as someone special, she still felt as if she didn’t belong.

  She had money in the bank, with a promise of much more to come, yet there was a hollowness to her life that she didn’t know how to fill. Across the table, Maris and Rachel’s agent, Tom, kept talking about Jules Farrier’s next concept for Timeless, but Rachel couldn’t focus. She knew she was nodding in all the right places because Maris kept talking and talking, but she just wanted to cry. The emptiness inside her was spreading on a daily basis. She knew its origin. It had a name.

  Houston.

  Sweet Lord, but she missed him so much it was a physical ache.

  “Rachel... Rachel.”

  Rachel jerked, her attention instantly refocusing on the man across the table.

  “I’m sorry, Tom. I must have been daydreaming.”

  Maris frowned. This woman was making her nuts. Never in her life had she known a woman this beautiful who was so unconcerned with herself. She’d just outlined one of the most unbelievable promotions in advertising history, and all Rachel could do was stare out the window.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Maris said. “For the moment all you have to remember is that Jules will be picking you up at seven.”

  Now Rachel was paying attention. “Tonight?”

  Maris sighed. “Yes, my beautiful airhead, tonight. Do you remember anything of what I’ve been saying?”

  Rachel flushed. “No.”

  Tom frowned. He hadn’t known Rachel long, but she was a coup to his agency. The last thing he wanted was for her to flip out.

  “Is everything okay?” he asked.

  Rachel shrugged. “I suppose I was woolgathering. I look around at all that has happened to me and keep waiting for my mother to shake my shoulder and tell me to wake up, that I’m going to be late for work.”

  Maris smiled and then reached across the table to pat Rachel’s hand.

  “Ah, a little case of homesickness, is it?”

  Tears burned the back of Rachel’s eyes, but she wouldn’t turn them loose. Holding on to the pain was the only way she could hold on to reality.

  “I suppose so,” Rachel said quietly, and looked away.

  Maris gave Tom a knowing look and then leaned toward Rachel.

  “Look, sweetie. We can always book you a quick trip home. You know, to touch base, a feel-better visit. Are you interested?”

  Just for a moment Rachel let herself think of driving up in Houston’s front yard, of walking into that old, ramshackle house and falling into his arms. And then she remembered their last phone call, and the anger and pain she’d heard in his voice.

  She sighed. She could never go back. Home wasn’t there anymore. It belonged to a bank, and Houston belonged to a life that she’d given away. Her chin quivered, but her gaze was steady as she looked Maris in the eyes.

  “My mother’s dead. There’s nothing left for me back there—at least not anymore. I made sure of that when I left.”

  Maris frowned. Secrets. Secrets made her nervous. “If you change your mind, all you have to do is just ask.”

  Rachel nodded, giving both her agent and the woman who was creating her career her full attention. “Now, about tonight—tell me again. This time I promise I’ll be listening.”

  Kenny Monday was dancing in a circle, laughing and waving his hands as a black plume of oil shot straight in the air. Houston stood beneath the downpour and still couldn’t believe it was happening. Every word he’d ever heard about oil wells kept running through his mind as the thick, black liquid showered down upon him: blowout, gusher, Texas tea, black gold. But any way he said it, the facts still remained the same.

  They’d struck oil.

  He looked at Kenny and started to grin.

  Kenny whooped out loud and threw his hat straight up in the air. His face and clothes were rapidly dappling with runny black droplets.

  “We’re rich, bub. By God, rich!”

  The oil splattered like bullets onto Houston’s hat, dripping from the brim and then onto his boots. He looked down at his clothes. They were soaked clear through. They’d never come clean again. And then it hit him. Hell, he didn’t have to worry about getting them clean. If he wanted, he could throw the damned things away. Even burn them. He would never be poor again.

  He started to laugh, first at himself, and then at the situation in general. Once he would have bet money that he and Rachel Austin had been the two poorest people ever to come out of Mirage. And now here they were, both rolling in money. The laugh froze on his face. He hoped to hell her money was making her happy, because all the oil in Texas would never be enough to make Houston accept losing her.

  Houston pointed at the well, squinting through the downpour at the roughnecks standing on the periphery of the strike.

  “How long they gonna let that thing blow?” he asked.

  Kenny shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. The superintendent is a good man. He’s been in the business for years. They’ll do what needs to be done when the time is right.”

  Houston frowned. “I never was one to waste money,” he muttered. “I’ll just go have a word with him.”

  Kenny grinned as Houston walked away, then bolted toward his car to get his cell phone. There were investors to call and a whole set of wheels to put into motion. And this was just the beginning.

  Beatty paused in the hallway outside Rachel Austin’s apartment, glancing up and down the hall to make certain he was unobserved. He wasn’t supposed to be here; it was his day off. But he hadn’t been able to concentrate on anything at home until he’d touched base with Rachel in some way. After some extensive reading on the subject of romance, he’d decided that the growing distance between him and Rachel was due to the fact that he hadn’t paid her enough personal attention. Women liked to be wooed. He was ready to woo.

  Satisfied that he was alone, he laid down the tissue-wrapped rose that he’d bought from a street vendor, placing it directly in front of her door and wishing he could put it in her hands instead. As he straightened, he impulsively pressed the flat of his hand against her door and then closed his eyes.

  “For you, my love,” he said softly, and then broke away and headed for the service elevator.

  An ornate mirror in the hallway threw back his reflection as he scurried past. His unassuming demeanor belied the passion burning within him. There was a squint to his eyes that had nothing to do with poor eyesight. It was as if he was constantly braced for the next blow to fall. Somehow over the years, every dream that he’d had, every hope that he’d claimed, had withered and died. Until Rachel. She’d given him a focus and revived dreams he’d thought were long forgotten.

  Just as he reached the service elevator, he heard a melodic ding behind him. Adrenaline surged. It was the sound that the elevator made as it reached a stop. Since Rachel was the only resident on the penthouse floor, it had to be her. He ducked into a small alcove and then peered between the fronds of a tall potted palm, desperate for the sight of her face.

  He
heard her voice before he saw her. A surge of pure joy filled his heart, and he took a small step forward before he remembered he wasn’t supposed to be here.

  Moments later he heard another voice. A frown darkened his face. It was that Farrier man. First out of curiosity and then from a growing jealousy, he watched the tableau playing out down the hall.

  “Rachel, darling, your photo shoot was magnificent. This latest campaign is going to be even bigger than the first. And did Tom tell you? The sales for Timeless are going through the roof.”

  Rachel smiled. “Glad to oblige.”

  Jules laughed aloud and hugged her. It was brief and entirely innocent, and she accepted it in the manner in which it had been given.

  When Jules was like this, she almost liked him. But not enough to forget the blue-eyed Texan she’d left behind. Never enough for that.

  “What’s this?” Jules said, and picked up the rose. “Looks like you have an admirer.” Then he frowned. “But how did it get here?”

  Rachel peered inside the paper. “There’s no card.” Then she shrugged. “Oh, well, there’s no telling who it came from. Besides, the concierge delivers to my apartment regularly.”

  “And leaves it on the floor?” Jules asked.

  Rachel paused. “No, they always call after I’m home and deliver it to me personally.” She frowned. This was all too puzzling, but she was tired from the shoot and anxious to shower and change. Worrying about a single rose on her doorstep seemed silly. “I’m sure it’s all right.”

  Jules handed her the rose as she reached toward the security panel to punch in her code. Moments later a click sounded. Jules stepped in front of her and turned the knob.

  “Allow me,” he said softly.

  Rachel hesitated, glancing at the man to her left. He was close. Too close. But his expression seemed benign. She shrugged off the thought, telling herself that if she was going to live in this world, she must learn how to accept what went with it. Even if that meant men who were a little too touchy-feely for her comfort.

  “Thank you,” she said, and walked inside. Jules was at her back.

  He shut the door behind them and then stood for a moment, absorbing the sight of the woman who had become the center of his world. He almost hated her for mattering so much. He’d never met a woman who couldn’t be bought—until her.