by Renee Roszel
“What? Outside?” the blonde asked, her tone critical.
Once again Mary had an urge to say something that might be construed as inelegant. She swallowed the impulse and nodded. “The room over the garage is quite lovely. Really our best—with wonderful southern exposure.” She indicated outside. “It’s only a few steps from the main house.”
Mary led the way onto the porch in time to see Bonn, a suitcase in each fist, come to a halt at the bottom of the porch steps. His attention had been drawn to the light Mary turned on. When her footfalls sounded on the redwood planks, his glance shifted to her. “Is that the room?” he asked.
Mary nodded. “It’s quite nice.”
“I’m sure it is,” he said as the blonde joined Mary on the porch.
“I’m afraid the only other guest room in the house is tiny, and the bed is a junior size.” Mary wasn’t sure why she felt the need to make excuses, but she hurried on. “It’s little Becca’s room, when she visits.”
“No need to explain,” Bonn said. “Lee will be perfectly comfortable.” He glanced at the blonde, his expression un-readable, even bathed in moonlight. “Won’t you?”
Lee didn’t speak at once, but crossed the porch to the stairs. Her high heels making sharp, harsh clicks. “Of course, baby,” she said, descending the steps to meet him.
Though Mary could no longer see the blonde’s face, a smile lilted in her voice. She certainly hadn’t smiled at Mary when they’d been inside. The newcomer saved her friendliness for the only audience that mattered to her.
Bonner Wittering.
“Breakfast is served in the kitchen around—”
“Don’t bother running over the house rules,” the blonde called without taking her eyes off her tall, handsome companion. “Bonner can—fill me in.”
Mary experienced a twinge at the blatant sexual innuendo. “Yes, well…” She cleared a rusty quiver from her throat, watched the woman take his arm, then decided staring longingly after such an unworthy man was a criminal waste of energy. “Good night.”
Neither answered, seemingly lost in gazing into each other’s eyes. Mary went inside, closed the door and was halfway up the stairs before she noticed the compact disc player still gushed out sexy love songs. She tramped back down the stairs, turned off the music, then stomped up to her room. Let him stare into her eyes all night if he wants to! Let him make wild, noisy love to her until they both pass out from dehydration! It’s nothing to me! Nothing at all.
Alone in her room, she trudged to her bed and fell forward, too exhausted and desolate to do anything else. “Let them howl at the moon like animals. I don’t care,” she whispered brokenly, “Please—just let me sleep, and don’t let me dream about—about his kiss.”
Mary did drop off to sleep, but not for long. She woke up with a start, facing the fact that she must brush her teeth, take off her sneakers and change out of her sweater and jeans. A bath would be nice, too, warm and relaxing. She didn’t expect Bonn back soon, if at all. He was no doubt filling in his company! Mary sat up and covered her face with her hands. Ugh! No good would come from visualizing that!
She went to her dresser and pulled out her nightgown and headed for the bathroom. Inside, she switched on the overhead light, then flinched at its brightness. Deciding to bathe in candlelight, she lit the lavender-scented candle on the glass shelf above the sink. She kept it there for nights like this, when her stress level skyrocketed—as it did every time Joe Lukins refused to keep a promise to Becca.
She hung her nightgown on the hook on her door, extinguished the overhead light, set the stopper in the tub drain and turned on the water. After doffing her clothes and folding them neatly on a chair, she swirled her hair up on top of her head and secured it with a large clip before stepping into the old-fashioned, claw-footed tub.
She lounged back to relax. Several minutes later, the tub brimmed with restorative, steamy water. She turned off the flow and lay back for a cathartic soak. Utterly still and dimly lit, the bathroom became a soothing, lavender-scented haven, where cares could be cleansed from her mind, at least for a time.
She inhaled deeply, taking in the pleasant aroma, then exhaled slowly, expelling the hurts and anxieties of the day. She concentrated on breathing slowly in and out. In and out. This calming exercise helped ease her tensions, purged her mind, and—she fervently hoped—would allow her to finally fall into a restful sleep.
Eyes closed, she breathed in the soothing scent until she began to drift along in a state of half consciousness, her weary body and overburdened mind transported to another plane of existence. A softer, gentler place where people like Joe Lukins and Bonner Wittering didn’t exist.
Somewhere, sometime, floating along in her toasty, slumberous cocoon, Mary had the oddest dream. A man stood over her, still and quiet. Then out of the utter stillness, she heard him speak a word. She jerked at the quarrelsome, bitten-off sound of it. Not a happy word. What was such an unhappy word doing in her quiet, gentle place?
In her half-sleeping state, she lolled her head back and forth, trying to fine tune her dream. She became aware of another sound, vaguely grating, like the screeching of metal scraping against metal, intermingled with the rustle of something. Fabric? She yawned and wriggled, willing the abrasive noise away.
She heard a click, as though a door had quietly closed. She blinked, now more awake than asleep. Inhaling, she stretched. That had been such a curious dream, with a strange combination of impressions. Having dozed off, she knew she should get to bed while she was in this deliciously drowsy state. She sat up, stretched again, but this time her hand brushed something. She glanced toward the outside of the tub, perplexed. A few seconds slipped by before she gathered enough of her sleepy wits to realize the faded, white lace curtain that hung from the metal rod encircling the old tub, had been drawn. She glanced toward the candle, now only a gauzy bit of off-white light visible through the fabric and plastic liner.
She rubbed her eyes, puzzled. She hadn’t drawn the curtain. She knew that for a fact, because she remembered being able to see the candle quite clearly before—
Oh, Lord in Heaven!
She was jarred starkly awake, mortified to the depth of her soul. It hadn’t been a dream! He had barged right in! He’d seen her in the tub. Stretched out—naked!
A sound issued up from her throat, a half whimper, half groan. Reflexively, she drew herself up in a ball of humiliation. How dare he charge in without knocking? How dare he stand there, staring down at her—so defenseless and—and so exposed! Furious at his audacity, and already as shamed as it was possible to be, she shouted, “Mr. Wittering, next time let’s think about knocking, shall we?”
He didn’t respond.
She flung back the curtain and climbed out, grabbed a towel and wrapped herself in it. “All right, let’s just get into it!” she muttered, too mad to allow logic or reason to intercede. She knocked loudly on the door that led to his bedroom. “Mr. Wittering? Did you hear me?” she called, determined to confront him for his inexcusable ogling. “Answer me! I know you’re in there!”
The doorknob rattled. She jumped back as he pushed open the door. He loomed before her, bare-chested, motionless in the bath’s entry. No lamps were lit in his room, though moonlight streamed in the front window. Nature’s night-light was too far away to be of much value, as far as seeing him. Unfortunately for Mary, the flickering candlelight reached out, highlighting his solemn features and his chest in its mellow glow. He still wore his slacks, but no shoes. Silently, he scanned her meager attire. A muscle quivered in his jaw. Before he met her gaze, he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said, simply, grimly.
When he said nothing more, she bristled. “Oh, you’re sorry, huh?”
His eyes reflected candlelight, hampering her ability to read them. Was he repentant or merely irked at being caught? He muttered something under his breath that sounded a little like, “Sorrier than you know,” but she couldn’t be sure. He might have been clearing
his throat. “I didn’t realize you were…” His sentence died. Nostrils flaring, his jaw moved from side to side, as though he were agitated. “You looked like you were asleep.”
“I thought I was,” she retorted. “But my dream turned out to be a living nightmare.”
A shadow of emotion fleetingly twisted his features. “The light wasn’t on,” he said. “How was I supposed to know you were in there?”
That was true. It had been dark. He’d probably assumed she was in bed. Speaking of being in bed, why wasn’t he in the blonde’s? “What time is it?” she asked.
He seemed surprised by the subject change but glanced at his wristwatch. “Three-fifteen. Why?”
“I thought it was a lot later.” Apparently she had hardly dozed at all. And if that were true, then he hadn’t spent much time with his ladylove, if any. She eyed him suspiciously. “Either you’re not the lover you’re cracked up to be or you didn’t…” She wasn’t sure how to finish that statement so she decided not to try. “Never mind.” She shook her head to get her brain in gear. Remember why you’re standing here, in a towel, for heaven’s sake! You’re mad at him! Tell him!
She readjusted her expression to proclaim her righteous indignation. “I just wanted to say—I can understand how you might have thought I was in bed and walked into the bathroom. But what I can’t excuse is that you hung around to leer at me when I was so—so vulnerable! That was vile and—I’m not letting you get away with it!”
He continued to frown, but one eyebrow went up in a questioning way. “What are you going to do, ram hot pokers in my eyes?”
“What?” It was hard to remain coherent when she was so close to him. His naked chest, so cleverly glorified in flickering candlelight, didn’t help matters.
“Would blinding me satisfy your injured pride?”
She glared, grasping his meaning. “Don’t you dare mock me!”
He shoved a hand through his hair. “Look, I said I’m sorry.”
His troubled expression was as unnerving at it was breathtaking. Her emotions tumbled over each other, struggling for supremacy. She wasn’t sure which would win out, fiery resentment or heart-pounding awe.
“It’s not much of an excuse,” he said, “but I’m a man. When a man sees a naked woman, he reacts in a primitive way. Of course, I looked.” His tone was flinty, almost impatient. She could feel his brooding tension electrifying the air between them. He was as angry as she was. How dare he be as angry as she! He wasn’t the injured party here! “It’s involuntary, like blinking,” he said. “I didn’t leer at you—at least no longer than I was genetically wired to. I left as soon as I could—physically.”
She glowered at him, flabbergasted by his defense. “So your defense is genetic wiring?” she scoffed. “Have you used that one in court yet?”
“Not personally, no,” he said.
“Well, don’t despair.” She felt her towel slipping, so she hooked her thumbs behind the terry at her breasts, hiking it higher. “I’m sure it’s in your future.”
His gaze followed the movement of her hands readjusting her towel and his jaw muscles bulged. “Look, I’ve apologized,” he ground out. “From now on I’ll knock, whether I see a light or not. What more can I say?”
She didn’t know. Why didn’t she shut the door? Why could she only stand there staring at him, experiencing a wrenching sadness?
They stood on opposite sides of a terrible gulf—between morality and amorality, truth and lies, trust and betrayal. Why did her heart grieve for a bridge across the chasm? There was no bridge. There shouldn’t be—at least not one that could lead her across to him. On his side there could be no happy endings.
Indicating the bathroom with a curt wave, he said, “I’d like to take a shower, so if you could cut the lecture short…”
He was right. She’d had her say. They were both cross, both exhausted. There was nothing left to do but run as fast as she could in the opposite direction. “Give me five minutes to brush my teeth and you can have the bathroom.” She spun to go.
“By the way,” he said. “I didn’t.”
She shifted back, confused. “Didn’t what?”
He slipped his hands into his slacks pockets. The flickering light was dim but not too dim to mask the sexy shift and play of muscle in his arms and chest. “Nothing.” He shook his head. “Goodnight.”
As she tried to break the spell the candlelit vision of his upper torso had on her ability to move, his meaning became clear. He was referring back to her comment about how little time he’d spent filling in his blonde. “Oh, right. I get it.” Refocusing on her anger, she canted her chin upward a notch. Defiant. “Naturally, that’s what you would say.”
She stepped backward into the bathroom and slammed the door in his face.
When the world grew silent again, Mary felt strangely defeated. She walked to the pedestal sink and leaned heavily against it. Squeezing her eyes shut, she experiencing a hot, sickening rush of misery. She’d thought her slap at his sexual prowess would make her feel smug, take away some of the sting of her humiliation and heartache.
It didn’t.
CHAPTER NINE
SATURDAY morning, Mary sat at the kitchen table eating breakfast. She hadn’t seen Lee Stanton at all on Friday. It seemed the new arrival had been stricken with a migraine and remained huddled, moaning in her darkened bedroom, allegedly on the verge of death. Mary kept herself busy with Miz Witty’s needs, but she’d heard Ruby and Pauline grumbling about Lee’s whining and dictatorial orders.
“Who does she think she is?” Pauline asked, drawing Mary from her thoughts. “The Queen of Egypt?”
Mary ate a spoonful of her oatmeal to mask her amusement, deciding not to suggest Pauline might have meant the Queen of England. Clearly the cook was annoyed with Bonner’s highfalutin girlfriend.
Mary looked at Pauline, who stood with her back to the stove. “What’s she done now?” she asked.
Pauline fisted her hands on her hips. “I haven’t even met her and I already hate her. She just called on the house line, saying she’s coming over for breakfast in ten minutes and she wants a low-fat, whole wheat muffin, black coffee and fat-free vanilla yogurt with fresh strawberries!” Pauline eyed the ceiling in high dudgeon. “Does she expect me to wave a wand and presto, all that stuff will appear? This ain’t no hotel!”
Mary sipped her coffee then set down the mug. “Why don’t you serve her some wheat toast and coffee and give her a choice of cereals. Doesn’t Crunchyberry come with dehydrated strawberries?”
Pauline snorted, clenching her fist as though about to punch somebody. “I’ll give her a choice—of a left-handed or right-handed knuckle sandwich!” She walked to the table and braced her fists on the surface, leaning toward Mary. “I know this Lee woman is Bonn’s girlfriend. You know, the one he cares about and all, but…” She glanced toward the door making sure they were alone. “My personal opinion is, that female is a snotty witch!” She bent closer and dropped her voice. “I gotta say, I think Mr. Wittering could do better.”
Mary smiled wanly and shook her head. “No. Mr. Wittering is right where he should be, as far as girlfriends go. Neither he nor Miss Stanton are worth much as—human beings. Don’t let them upset you.”
“No wonder my ears were burning.”
At the sound of Bonner’s voice, Mary and Pauline jerked to stare toward the kitchen entry. Mary’s heart leapt to her throat. She’d managed to avoid being around him on Friday, but a mere day, a paltry twenty-four hours, was not enough time to get over their night-time confrontation in the bath. The very thought gave her breathing problems. She concentrated on taking long, slow breaths so she wouldn’t hyper-ventilate.
“Oh, cripes!” The cook abruptly straightened, her face going crimson. Mary felt sorry for her, obviously horrified that he’d overheard.
Though Mary tried to follow her own advice not to let him upset her, her cheeks burned, too. Unhappily, it was one thing to give advice, and another to put
it to good use, especially when every foolish fiber of her being came to goofy, gaga attention when he was around.
“I should think your ears would burn all the time, Mr. Wittering,” she murmured, focusing on her bowl of oatmeal. His good looks, even unsmiling, did shameful, disturbing things to her. “Surely your lifestyle generates enough gossip to keep both your ears burning—kind of like the playboy’s eternal flame.”
His chuckle held a trace of amusement. That startled her, but she didn’t dare look at him. She feared his smile. “That should be two flames, shouldn’t it?” he asked. “Or do you see my whole head on fire?”
She spooned up more oatmeal and ate it, refusing to respond. It was easier to keep from looking at him if she didn’t speak to him.
“Mr. Wittering, sir…” Pauline began, hesitantly, her demeanor completely unlike her initial, saucy attitude toward him. Her flannel shirt was buttoned up, showing nary a scrap of red underwear. Mary had a feeling Jed’s influence had accomplished the transformation. Plainly a shy man’s honest affection could bring about radical changes in a woman’s overt sexuality. “Your—um—friend, Lee, wants stuff for breakfast I don’t have on hand,” she said, glumly. “I can buy it and have it ready tomorrow morning, but—”
“Don’t worry, Pauline.” Bonn took a seat kitty-corner from Mary. “Lee will eat whatever you’ve prepared. And please, call me Bonn.”
“Yes, sir—uh—okay.” Pauline turned toward the stove. “There’s blueberry waffles or scrambled eggs or both, and toast. And oatmeal. Plus orange juice and coffee, like usual.”
“How about some of everything,” he said.
“Comin’ up.” The cook busied herself at the stove.
The click of high heels attracted Mary’s attention and she knew immediately who had arrived. The Queen of Egypt. She turned toward the kitchen entry to offer the tall, willowy blonde a polite smile. She tried to make the expression genuine, but it felt tight. “Good morning, Miss Stanton. I trust your headache is better?”
