“You are,” she said with conviction and loyalty. “J. T. McKinney always says it. I’ve heard him say it myself. Everybody respects you and always has.”
He shot her a sharply questioning look. She understood.
“Yes,” she admitted. “Even me. All these years. I—thought a lot of you.”
He was silent a moment. His thumb stroked her palm. “Then why wouldn’t you look at me?”
She bit at her lower lip. “I suppose I was frightened. And I thought I was—was through with that kind of thing.”
A low rumble of thunder startled her. His hand tensed around hers. The thunder sounded again, louder and more insistent. Nora glanced in confusion at the sky. The cloud castles, which had been muted shades of pastel, had suddenly turned gray and seemed to be growing darker still.
A breeze had sprung up, but neither of them had noticed. Somehow, lower, blacker clouds had scudded in from the west and were weaving angry wreathes in the sky.
A drop of water hit the tabletop. Then another. One fell into Nora’s half-empty wineglass. Still another glanced against the edge of her eye and began to run down her cheek like a tear.
“Rain,” she said in wonder. “It’s going to rain.”
Almost at her words, the breeze turned into a wind. The changing light on the lake danced as ripples rose. More drops began to pelt down, making dark spots on the porch’s painted yellow floor.
“I’d better take you in,” Ken said, rising and drawing her to her feet. But they both stood motionless, watching the mounting power of the coming storm.
“The rain feels wonderful,” Nora said, raising her face to it. “I love storms. Let’s stay out—can’t we? Oh, rain—it’s been so long.”
“You’ll get soaked. Don’t you care?”
“I want to. It feels so good. Doesn’t it?”
He was standing behind her. He put his arms around her, drawing her close. “It feels good.”
Nora nestled more closely against him. The next time it thundered, she saw lightning across the lake, a bright chain of it. The rain kept pouring down in great warm drops.
Ken laughed and held her more tightly. His arms glistened with rain, and her hair, her blouse, her cotton skirt were quickly growing sodden with it.
She opened her mouth to taste it, then laughed, too, and had to shake her head to toss the rain from her eyes.
“Come here,” Ken said in a low growl. “You’ve done gone and blinded yourself.”
He turned her around, drew his shirt from the confines of his belt and wiped her eyes with its edge. She blinked up at him through rain-starred lashes.
His blond hair was darkened by the wetness and fell in a damp wave over his forehead. She reached up to wipe it back into place. “Your hair’s all wet—”
“Your face is all wet. Your mouth is all wet—”
He lowered his face to hers and took her lips, his tongue tasting the rain on them, then growing more intimate. Nora’s mouth parted eagerly for him, and she, too, could taste rain on his flesh.
The warmth of his long body made the wind seem chill by contrast. Lightning flashed again, closer this time, making patterns of colored stars dance behind Nora’s closed eyelids. The thunder rolled so loudly that she could feel it in her chest, shaking her heart.
Ken’s hands moved up and down her back, feeling its planes beneath the sculpted wetness of her clothing. His lips traveled to her jawline, then her throat, then her breasts. Through the wet cloth, his mouth warmed first one hardened nipple, then the other, then returned to the first.
Breathless, she rested her cheek against his soaked hair, holding tight to his shoulders for support. His touch was making her so dizzy with desire that she let her eyes flutter open, trying to orient herself.
The lake was almost disappearing beneath gray, lashing veils of rain. The wind made the water seethe like surf, turning the scene even more mistily vague. All light seemed to be escaping from the world.
No one can see us here, Nora thought, closing her eyes again. There are no other houses near. The rain is like a curtain. The rain is like a room of our own.
He kissed her mouth again, a kiss as wild and deep as the storm around them. Her hands slid up beneath his loose shirt, caressing the hard, wet surface of his back. The thunder gave another of its heart-quaking rumbles, and he pulled her closer to him, one hand beginning to unfasten her blouse.
Then her breasts were bared to the rain, and he was kissing them again, his hands tight around her waist. Nora made a little sound deep in her throat, unlike any sound she had ever made before.
He straightened, staring down at her, breathing hard. The rain ran down his face, but he no longer seemed to notice. He paused from touching her just long enough to unbutton his own shirt and strip it off.
It fell soundlessly to the floor of the porch, and he pulled her against him again, so that his hard chest was warm against her nipples. He turned her face up to him, and let his lips take hers again.
“Nora,” he breathed against her lips. “I put this belt buckle on for you. Would you take it off for me?”
Trembling, she drew back from him. She shook the water from her hair so that it wouldn’t drip into her eyes. Her fingers fumbled as she tried to undo the silver buckle, but he didn’t help her. He stood watching her, his hands taut on her upper arms. Her fingers shook harder.
At last the buckle came undone, and she drew the belt from its loops. She stared up at him, still holding it.
“Now, Nora,” he said, taking a deep breath, “I’d like to take you in.”
She shook her head, still trembling. “We’re—all wet. We’ll track up the house.”
He gripped her arms tighter. “It’s a lake house. It’s designed to be tracked up. Will you let me take you in?”
Something seemed to be melting inside her, turning her as liquid as the rain. She nodded numbly, loving the desire she saw in his face.
He took the belt from her hand. He scooped up his shirt, then lifted Nora effortlessly in his arms. Somehow he managed to open the door.
He stepped inside and when the door eased shut behind him, he tightened his hold, carrying her cradled even more closely to his chest.
“We’re going to need towels,” she whispered, hiding her face against his throat. “To wipe off all this rain.”
“No, we won’t,” he said fiercely. “I’m going to kiss it off you. Every drop.”
He carried her into the bedroom.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
WHEN NORA AWOKE, her body tingled with a sense of sheer aliveness. She stretched, and the crisp sheets crackled with her movements. She remembered falling asleep in Ken’s arms and smiled, then blushed.
Had that couple making such wild yet tender love really been them—bookish Nora Jones and quiet Ken Slattery?
And now she understood why people called it “making love.” Gordon had always called it something different and ugly.
With Gordon it had been a different and ugly thing, but Gordon now seemed like a distant nightmare, growing vaguer and less real each hour she spent with Ken.
She stretched again, wondering where Ken was. His place beside her was empty. She touched the rumpled sheets where he had lain, wondering how she could miss him so much after only one night. The universe seemed lonesome and incomplete without him. Where was he?
As if in answer to her question, he came through the door, carrying a tray. The tray had a wrapped gift on it, a dish of strawberries, a plate of toast, a cup of coffee, and a small vase containing three clover blossoms. Under his arm was another gift-wrapped box, a much larger one.
Nora rose on one elbow, pushing her tumbled hair from her eyes. She smiled shyly at him and pulled the sheet up higher. She was naked beneath it.
He was fully dressed, his usual low-slung jeans, his belt with the silver buckle, a shirt of ice blue that matched his eyes.
He set the tray on her lap, put the large present beside her, then reached into the closet and drew out another of his s
hirts. “Here,” he said gruffly, and held it so that she could slip into it. He understood that she was still shy.
“What is this?” Nora asked, buttoning two buttons of the shirt and staring down at the tray.
“Breakfast. It’s the best I can do. Sorry.”
“You shouldn’t do this. I should be up, making you ham and eggs.”
“Don’t want ’em. Rather do this.”
“And flowers even?” Nora shook her head in happy disbelief. “You brought me flowers? Nobody ever gave me flowers before.”
He shrugged and sat beside her on the bed. “They’re nothin’ but clovers. But clovers make me think of you.”
She touched them and smiled. At his house, she had seen the struggling little clover in the oversize flowerpot. She had recognized the plant as the one she’d accidentally uprooted, and had been touched. She was coming to realize that under Ken’s stoic surface was a sentimental streak no one had ever suspected.
She began to eat. The toast was already cold, the coffee too strong and the strawberries too sugary, but she wouldn’t have hurt his feelings for the world.
A self-critical expression crossed her face. “I shouldn’t be doing this. I should get up and change the sheets downstairs.” She blushed again. “We got them damp last night.”
She took a bite of toast so that she wouldn’t have to meet his gaze. Last night, soaked with rain, they had made love in the downstairs bedroom. Then, once again, he’d taken her into his arms and carried her upstairs, to the largest of the loft bedrooms, to sleep in a dry bed. Once there, they’d found themselves making love again.
“The sheets are washed and in the dryer,” he said. “The bed’s airing.”
“You shouldn’t do that—and I should be up. There’s other work. We left a mess on the porch last night—”
“It’s cleaned. The dishes are in the dishwasher.”
She looked at him with fond exasperation. “Why are you doing this? You’re spoiling me.”
“It took me so long to get you, I don’t want to chance losin’ you.”
She looked at him, and the naked hunger in his face shook her. Instinctively she reached for his hand. His fingers tightened around hers possessively, and a muscle flickered in his cheek.
She wanted to be in his arms again, to make love to him again. He wanted it, too; she could tell. Her heart seemed to take a long, tumbling fall.
“Open your presents,” he said. He released her hand, as if he didn’t trust himself to touch her any longer, as if the temptation was too great and the time was still too soon.
“You shouldn’t bring me presents,” Nora said helplessly.
“I wanted to. Besides—it’s our anniversary. Sorta. A week today.”
He took the tray and set it on the bedside table. Then he put the large box in her lap. It was gift-wrapped with a huge golden ribbon and a gold sticker that said Neiman-Marcus, one of Texas’s most exclusive stores.
“Our anniversary? You are sentimental. I never would have guessed this about you—ever. And Neiman-Marcus…what on earth—?”
“Open it.”
“I don’t deserve all this,” she said, but began unwrapping the box. The paper was so lovely she hated to tear it, so she untaped everything carefully and detached the ribbon as gently as possible. “Why, I never had anything from Neiman-Marcus in my life. What have you gone and done?”
He said nothing, only watched as she opened the box.
When she peeked beneath the tissue paper, her heart contracted with a pleased surprise so intense that it hurt. Inside the box was the most beautiful woman’s suit she had ever seen, a tailored blue-gray tweed. Beside it nestled a pair of matching blue-gray leather shoes. She gasped.
“A suit? With matching shoes? It’s the most beautiful—” She was too overcome to finish the sentence. She picked up the suit jacket and pressed it against her breast, stroking its rich texture. With her other hand she touched one of the shoes, assuring herself it was real.
Ken looked self-conscious, a loner not used to indulging in loving gestures, but wanting to please now that he had done so. His voice was brusque. “You said you used to want to be like Miss McDuff when you taught. You said you liked her suits and matching shoes and all—this is for when you start practice teaching.”
She looked at him, tears rising in her eyes. She hugged the jacket more tightly. “You remember me saying that?”
“It’s nothin’,” he said, more gruffly than before. “Dottie helped me pick and get the size.” He handed her the smaller package. “You’ve got one more. Happy anniversary.”
Gently, almost reverently, she laid the jacket back in the box. He took the box and set it on the floor.
“This feels like a book,” Nora said, unwrapping the second package as carefully as she had the first.
Ken, unsmiling, nodded.
She drew off the paper and stared at the book, bewildered. It was a well-used volume, with a green leather cover and gilt-edged leaves. It looked familiar, its heft and texture somehow even felt familiar. The title sent a pang of nostalgia through her—Great Poems of the English Language.
She looked at Ken, who was still not smiling. “This looks just like the book Miss Pauline loaned me when I was a girl,” she breathed. “Just exactly.”
“It is the book.”
Memories surged back to Nora. Pauline McKinney pressing the green book into her hands. “Now you read this,” Miss Pauline had said, smiling. “You’ll like it. It’s a special book. I know you’ll take good care of it.”
She had kept the book for an entire, blissful week, reading and rereading. She had been thirteen years old, and it had seemed the most wonderful book in the world to her. To own it would have been very heaven.
“But it can’t be—” she shook her head in disbelief “—it can’t—”
She opened it to the title page and saw an inscription in fading ink: To Pauline, with love from J.T. The date beneath J.T.’s signature was twenty-five years old.
Under the first inscription was a newer one, in straight, spare letters, its black ink fresh: To Nora because she is a poem herself—all my love, Ken.
She gazed down at the book and shook her head, tears once more stinging her eyes. “But how—? I shouldn’t—How did you—?”
He shrugged and kept his expression stolid. “I didn’t do anything. It was Cal. He thought you should have it.”
She closed the book and held it to her chest, even more tightly than she had hugged the jacket. “But—the rest of the family—I’m the last person who should…” The sentence trailed off because her voice grew choked.
The more emotional she became, the more impassive Ken grew. “No. Cal asked the others. They ain’t—they aren’t poetry readers, the McKinneys. He says you should have it.”
“Me? Why me?”
“He says, things like that there—that book—” Ken muttered “—should belong to who loves them most.”
Nora stroked the leather cover, unable to speak. She was aware of Ken’s eyes on her, but didn’t want to look at him, for fear she would lose her struggle to keep from crying.
“You like it?” he asked, concern in his voice.
Mutely she nodded.
“Now, Nora, don’t go and cry on me.”
She shook her head, furiously denying that she was fighting back tears, but he seemed to know better.
He put his arm around her and squeezed her tightly. With his free hand, he took the book and set it on the bedside table.
“Come here,” he said, drawing her into his embrace. “I want you happy, not sad.”
“I am happy,” Nora managed to say, pressing her cheek against the wonderful strength of his shoulder. “I’ve never been so happy.”
He hugged her more tightly. “Last night—it wasn’t—too bad for you?”
His touch woke strong, new fires in her, fires that had never burned until he had touched her the first time. She put her arms around his neck and lifted her fa
ce to his. Her vision was blurry with unshed tears, but his strong-boned, solemn face seemed beautiful to her.
“Last night,” she said, “was like nothing that ever happened to me before. I didn’t think I’d ever care for a man. Not that way. But you taught me.” Her voice shook. “You taught me.”
A low rumble of thunder grumbled from across the lake. Nora remembered the thunder shaking her heart as Ken had kissed her in the storm. She remembered the feel of his body, warm in the cool of the wind, his shirt wet beneath her fingers, and the taste of rain on his lips.
“Teach me more,” she whispered, the tears still trembling in her eyes.
He gazed down at her, his expression guarded, as if unsure she could mean what she said.
“Please,” she said. She raised her face to his, asking for his kiss.
In the distance, a new storm rumbled again. Ken’s mouth swept down to capture hers, and something between a growl and a moan vibrated softly, deep in his throat, mingling with the sound of the thunder.
As he kissed her, he lowered her so that they lay together in the bed, each trying to draw the other nearer. The sheet fell away from Nora, and Ken wound a lean leg around Nora’s bare one. She sighed with pleasure, twining her legs against his as intimately as she could, her body arching to curve against his.
His fingers brushed her breasts as he undid the buttons of the shirt. Then, gently, he raised her to a sitting position again and drew the shirt from her. It dropped away, fell silently to the floor.
To be seen naked in full daylight made her suddenly timid. She reached for the sheet, wanting to cover herself again, but his hand closed firmly over her wrist.
“No,” he said, his eyes intense with desire. “You’re beautiful. I want to see every part of you, touch every part of you, kiss every part.”
Sharply, she took in her breath. She let the edge of the sheet fall from her hand.
He bent and kissed her on one breast. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured, then kissed her other breast. “All over,” he said.
She quivered. She bent to kiss him on the hair. She reached for his belt buckle, but he caught her hand softly.
The Thunder Rolls Page 18
