by Tracy Sumner
"She said you were rusty," she finally said.
He dropped his head back, laughing. "Rusty? I'll be damned. That much is"—he squeezed her ankle again—"was true. Other than that, I think they have the wrong fella."
She flopped to the sand, relaxing into his touch, her clothes thoroughly ruined now. A thousand stars twinkled from black velvet folds, more than you could ever see in a city sky. "Yes, it appears most don't know you at all. You're a shrewdly intelligent, very cunning diplomat who is seen by everyone in this town as a priest without the appropriate neckwear. An angel without detectable wings. They're as blind as bats, the lot of them."
"So you're not falling for that angel business, huh?"
She closed her eyes, the night mist cooling her overheated skin. Zach's hand had worked its way to her thigh. "No. I'm afraid I've... seen the light."
And everything else he had to offer.
Sand squeaked; then she felt him flooding over her body like a wave, knee to knee, hip to hip, chest to chest. Hands cradling her head, his lips found hers, the urgency in the kiss warming her insides like a shot of spiced whiskey.
"I've decided two wasn't enough," he said, and set about proving how far from an angel he was.
Chapter 10
No matter how hard a man may labor, some
woman is always in the background of his mind.
~Gertrude Franklin Atherton
Heart pounding, the dream returned in a series of flashes. Hannah's shrill, weak cries; his lungs burning as he raced for a doctor; her crystal blue eyes wide and unseeing; her arm hanging off the bed, fingers trailing on the cold floor.
The ending was always the same.
Zach drew a hitching breath and let his head flop back to the pillow. The salty sting of tears pricked his throat, and he swallowed thickly. For a moment, he had awakened and imagined someone slept beside him, someone warm and sweet-scented. Before he had the chance to align his thoughts, a sharp burst of pleasure expanded his chest.
Savannah.
Blinking, he rolled over, searching for the round indentation in the pillow, the wealth of glossy hair spread across his sheets.
He wasn't going crazy, he reminded himself as he had so many times since she arrived in Pilot Isle two weeks ago. Savannah Connor was real. Flesh-and-blood real. Not simply a product of his dreams.
Or his loneliness.
And while she was here, she was his.
It took another moment to realize he lay on the cot in the jail cell and not in what he had come to think of as "their" coach house. He never had nightmares during the nights—or rather the stolen hours in the middle of them—that he spent with her there, in what had become a frequent occurrence. Wrapped around Savannah's body, exhausted from loving her, he slept better than he did after a shot of whiskey, even better than after a late-night walk on the beach. If not for the sunset-to-sunrise patrols like the one he had finished at daybreak, he would consider himself well rested for the first time in two years.
Stretching, he slung his legs over the side of the cot, untangling himself from a blanket he hadn't remembered throwing over his body. Strange. Rising unsteadily to his feet, he scratched his day-old beard and sniffed.
He followed the scent to his desk and the yellow mug, covered with a napkin to hold the heat inside. A note lay beside it. Zach squinted, unable to make out the script. Glancing over his shoulder, checking to see that he was alone, he went around his desk, opened a small side drawer, and took out a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles. He stared at them with such strong distaste he could feel the sneer twist his lips.
Damn, when had he become old enough to need spectacles?
The wire arms hooked unfamiliarly over his ears, mug of lukewarm coffee in one hand, he began to read and sip in time.
I stopped by to schedule the final meeting with Hyman Carter and his employee delegation. Please let him know that I'm available tomorrow afternoon. The coffee is from Christabel's; I hope it stays warm. You were too fatigued to wake. Long night with the patrol, I imagine. I pitched in as any able-bodied citizen, even a temporary one, of the town should and entered the latest figures into your cargo book as well as I could manage without your participation. I recorded the stack of lists and placed them in the envelope marked "input figures." I believe this is a perfect job for someone on my committee. You're overworked as it is.
S.C.
P.S. If Mr. Carter needs to meet in the evening, I'm available tonight.
Zach took a sip of coffee, gripping the mug to keep his fingers from trembling. For a split second, he considered walking down Main Street, poking in every shop until he tracked her down. Dragging her back and locking the door behind them.
The cot wasn't in such bad shape as that.
It had been two days since he'd seen her. Or more specifically, since he'd touched her. His heart kicked as a picture of her on the beach that first night popped into his mind. Waves lapping her feet, her long legs spread, her eyes a clear, green invitation.
Get a hold of yourself, Zach.
Flopping into the chair, he thumped the mug on his desk. Did he miss Savannah, was that it? His body did; he knew that much. Once it realized what it had been doing without, it seemed to have unlimited vigor. And enthusiasm.
He got hard every time she was within spitting distance.
But missing...?
Did she feel the same? She had come here this morning, an unscheduled visit, rare for a woman who lived and died by her damned appointment book. Covered him with a blanket. Tattered and none too clean, but still. And brought him coffee. It made him feel suspicious and... wonderful in a way that scared the hell out of him. No one had taken care of him since, well, since never. His mother had two infants to worry about not too many years after he came along. He'd helped out, doing chores and tending his baby brothers until that job defined him.
Thirty years later, it still defined him.
Then, suddenly, someone came along offering to help him. First the cargo ledger. What would be next? Scheduling the men for beach patrol? Shopping for his groceries?
Sliding the ledger into view, Zach studied her entries. The ink glistened, barely dry. Orderly figures, not a period out of place. Everything written in her neat, flowing script. He did a quick calculation. All tallied perfectly.
Of course.
Smart as a whip, the woman was. Zach didn't buy that weaker sex bullshit for a minute. She could outfox nearly every man in town, and from the fearful looks on their faces when she stepped into a room, they knew it. He'd wondered on more than one occasion if she was too smart for him. Not that this thing they had was going anywhere beyond Elle's return from university. So forget brains for the time being.
Because, physically, there wasn't a better match in any universe, his or hers.
There was no way there could be.
He hadn't imagined a woman existed who would fit him in bed the way Savannah did. He could suggest any foolish old thing, like having sex in the ocean, and she'd get this clever look in her eye, wheels turning as she figured out how to do it.
Still, it rankled to be with a woman who ate books like candy and whose vocabulary included terms he often didn't understand. Though he had quit teasing her about it because watching her mouth form those fancy words excited him almost as much as watching her take her clothes off.
He studied the cargo ledger, took another swig of coffee. What was he worrying about? Between passionate descriptions of what they planned to do to each other, there were plenty of assurances on both sides that when it ended, it ended. Savannah wasn't establishing any roots she couldn't yank up quickly. A telegram from New York arrived nearly every day.
Zach pushed aside the coffee mug and the niggling voice telling him that he sometimes didn't feel so final when he said final.
Who was to say he and Savannah couldn't continue this affair—if that was an apt description for the most thrilling experience of his life—even after Elle returned? Maybe Savannah would want t
o stay, help out with the school a little longer. Or visit. Often. Caleb and Christabel had been doing whatever it was they did for years now, without a vow in sight. Course, Caleb had asked, but Christa didn't seem to want marriage.
Not every woman wanted marriage.
Savannah repeated those five words like a parrot until he believed her, or believed her as much as he could. He trusted her when she said they weren't going too far or letting things get out of control.
Shoving the ledger out of his way, he propped his elbows on the desk and dropped his head onto his hands, trying to massage away the tension.
Blazes, Irish gave a good massage.
He sighed and wiped his damp brow on his sleeve.
Out of control. That's the way he felt when he was with her. Hungry. For her touch and, frightening enough, for her mind. Lately, he found himself wanting to ask her all sorts of useless questions. About her family, what growing up in a big city had been like, and, most disturbing, about the man who'd hurt her. The bastard who had enjoyed arresting her, which still caused her face to pale.
Zach had come to think of her as his in an entirely horrible, masculine way. He would never, not on his life, tell her. He could imagine the explosion. No matter, he did feel possessive and anyone who hurt her....
His fists clenched. He glanced at the cargo ledge and shoved back his chair. About time to run over to the restaurant and pick up lunch. On the way, he'd sniff around town and see what kind of trouble his Irish was stirring up.
He tried to ignore the kick of anticipation in his belly.
* * *
Meanwhile, Savannah sat in Caroline's parlor, in a circle of women industriously stabbing needles through cloth. Some worked on quilts, others on church dresses. Lydia sat with her hand stuffed in a sock, darning a hole in the toe.
They cast pitying looks at her, although she could sew, thank you very much. A skill taught to her by her mother, one her father had frowned upon after they moved to a modest mansion in the city. They had servants for those duties, he had told her time and time again. Therefore her needlework was, to use Elle's word, rusty.
Dipping her head, she smiled, feeling a warm zing in the pit of her stomach.
It had been two days since she had seen Zachariah.
Actually, not two full days. She had stopped by the jail this morning and found him sleeping on the cot in the cell, his hair salt-crusted, his cheeks and nose windburned. Seeing him lying on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other stretched across his stomach, it was all Savannah could do to restrain herself from sliding in next to him and hugging him close. But the door was unlocked, and truly, their relationship did not include cuddling on a cot in the middle of the morning. That seemed like something you would do with your husband or possibly a true love. She and Zach had firmly defined their liaison. Love it was not. If she found herself unable to turn away from him at times, studying the way he wagged his fingers while he talked, or the tiny dimple by his mouth that flared to life at odd times and only with sincere smiles, she would admit to suffering from an impressive case of infatuation.
Savannah glanced at the faces of the women in the sewing circle. Wouldn't the unmarried ladies gathered here be infatuated with him if they had the chance to see him as she did?
"Prissy's taking a red velvet cake over to the jail this afternoon," Lydia said, nodding at the light laughter that followed her statement. "Darnella will be heading that way tomorrow morning with her scrumptious cheese biscuits. You know what that means."
"Church dance coming up," a gray-haired woman whose name had slipped Savannah's mind chimed in. One of the younger women in the circle was her granddaughter, she did remember that much. "Time to start harassing the unattached men, yep. An autumn wedding would sure liven things up."
"Wonder if Zach will ask one of them? Never any good at taking the bit in his teeth, that one. Stubborn." This from Christabel Connery, Caleb's "friend" and owner of the town's only restaurant. She snapped a length of thread with her teeth and continued, "Prissy's not his type anyway. Too much chatter and not enough thinking behind it. She would drive the man crazy. Darnella is a pretty girl, though. Maybe that's enough to entice."
Until Zach's name was mentioned, the conversation had been monotonous, the gossip harmless. Savannah leaned forward and smiled warmly, striving for the poise of one involved in a meaningless tête-à-tête but not genuinely interested. "How agreeable. A dance you say?"
Lydia dabbed a piece of green thread against the end of her tongue and worked it through the eye of a needle. "Hmmm, yes, next Saturday. What with days getting shorter before we know it, and cold weather rolling in, we like to have a dance while the evenings are still pleasant. Donations are taken at the door, a cake raffle and quilt exhibition held before the fiddlers arrive. All funds go to the church. For one thing, we need a new red pane in the stained glass window over the vestibule. A bird, poor beast, lost its way and crashed right into it last winter. Cracked it something awful. Have to go to Raleigh for the repair, you know, and everything in that city is steep."
She knotted her thread and turned with a broad smile the likes of which made Savannah extremely nervous. "Many a marriage has come about because of this dance, Savannah, dear."
Savannah jabbed her needle through her embroidery sample and straight into her thumb. Wincing, she raised it to her lips, murmuring, "You don't say." The bitter taste of blood filled her mouth.
Sensing a tenderfoot among them, the ladies starting barking like a passel of hungry dogs. They dispensed advice about what to wear, how to fix her hair—she needed help with that, everyone agreed—and how to catch a man. Talk of rallies or independence, women's schools, or shorter hours for workers at the oyster factory was not recommended.
"Wonderful, wonderful concerns," Lydia said, "but not fit conversation for charming a man, dear."
Christabel smoothed her finger along a neat row of stitches. "Too bad you and Zach dislike each other, Savannah, because he's a plum one just waiting to be picked. The Garrett men are handsome, no doubt about it. And Zach the best of the bunch." This seemed an odd comment coming from an intimately close friend of Caleb Garrett. Except for a few soft giggles, the women let it pass.
"We don't... dislike each other." She drew a breath of cinnamon-scented air. Cookies sat in an alabaster blue dish on the mahogany side table. "Simple disagreements, nothing more."
Christabel checked her stitching and grinned. "Spitting like cats whenever you're together. What about that argument last week in the restaurant? I thought I was gonna have to separate you like two fighters in a ring. Zach has never, to my mind, let his anger get the best of him. I'd prescribe far corners for you two."
Savannah squirmed on the settee, crossing and uncrossing her ankles. That particular argument had been silly. With Zach in the wrong, of course. Hyman Carter's daughter had every right to attend their meetings regarding the oyster factory amendments. The man had no sons and was sure to leave part of the business to his daughter. It wasn't Savannah's fault the girl came to her without first consulting her father. That it was such a surprise to the men in the room to see Mirabelle walk in the door was not her concern. The woman was twenty-nine years old and did not need a keeper.
"I heard about it, too," Lydia said with a sigh. "I agree. It's terribly out of character for Zach to get so cross. The two of you are a bad mix, unfortunately."
Such a "bad mix" that they met at the coach house an hour later for an extremely passionate encounter. Zach told her afterwards that he would argue with her every day if the result could be the same.
The gray-haired grandmother cackled, slapping her wadded cloth against her thigh. "Something strange about a man not looking for a wife after a couple of years of being alone. Bless Hannah's heart, the dear girl, but living is living. And men are men. You would think the Constable would like comfort only a woman can give. We know he isn't receiving any, not even"—her voice dropped to a whisper—"out of town."
"St
range indeed," Caroline agreed with a sly glance thrown Savannah's way.
She stared at her row of uneven stitches, avoiding the shrewd gaze of her newest student. Caroline was reading better with each lesson. A very bright woman, she didn't miss much.
"Magnus wants to ask you to attend with him. He told me so himself yesterday evening," Lydia said, checking her material for tears. "He's as suitable as a new penny. A mite stiff, true, but suitable just the same. Savannah, you would make an excellent doctor's wife."
"Me?" she asked, wishing she had not accepted an invitation to what was turning out to be a hellacious exploration into the world of proper sewing circles and small-town gossip.
"Of course, you." Lydia laughed, waving away the ridiculous question. "You have so much vigor and initiative. Magnus has noticed, of course. That's why he thought to mention his interest to me, since I am the co-chair for our oyster factory project." She leaned over and gripped Savannah's cold fingers. "Since we're such good friends."
Savannah fiddled with her sample, at a loss. Who would Zach take to the dance? Did their agreement include any stipulations about courting? She couldn't remember their discussing that issue.
Couldn't he have asked her to attend the dance with him? What could that have hurt?
A kind gesture to introduce her around, nothing romantic about it. Did he think she could not keep her hands off him for one evening? No one in town with the exception of a woman who had a rather scandalous past herself had an inkling that anything was going on between them.
When Savannah really thought about it, his resistance was quite insulting.
"You know," Savannah replied, squeezing Lydia's hand, "I believe I would like to attend the dance with Dr. Leland. Since I've only met him once, could you talk to him for me?"
