by Jan Hudson
Patience, he told himself.
Olivia lay in bed thinking. On her back in the darkened room, she stared at shadows made by a sliver of moonlight coming through the blinds.
Why had she chickened out?
She had fully intended for Jackson’s birthday party to end here, in this bed. Hadn’t she changed the sheets and put sachet under the pillows? Hadn’t she worn the most seductive of her lingerie?
The stage was set. He was turned on; she darned sure was. Then, at the last moment—or very near it—she’d panicked again. The anxiety wasn’t as severe as it had been in the park when they’d gone kite flying, but it was there. She thought that she’d reasoned the whole thing through.
Obviously, she hadn’t. Why?
She hadn’t detected any cruelty or extreme possessiveness in Jackson. He wasn’t like Thomas…or her father. He wasn’t.
But then Thomas had been wonderful and thoughtful when he was courting her. It was only later that she learned it was all a front, a facade for the controlling, cruel man that he really was. Thomas was a liar of the worst kind. Olivia abhorred lies and deceit. Yet she was finding herself drawn in to doing the very thing she detested.
She hadn’t been truthful with Jackson.
But had he been truthful with her?
It was such a small thing, she knew, but why had he claimed to have read Grafton’s books when he obviously hadn’t? He didn’t even know that the famous mystery writer was a woman. She hadn’t missed that. And she’d caught him in a couple of other fibs as well.
That’s what made her nervous. She was terrified of deception.
No, she couldn’t get any more involved with him until she trusted him totally—for Olivia was beginning to realize that she couldn’t simply have a no-strings affair with Jackson.
Her heart was at stake.
Jackson had lied about the book. Why?
And what else was he lying about?
Eight
Olivia stood at the sink and watched another of Jackson’s “assistants” leave. Heavy caseload, he’d told her. He was having to do a lot of extra work at home. This one was a redhead, tall, gorgeous. Young. Very young. She’d been at Jackson’s twice this week. Monday night and Wednesday night.
Not that it was any of her business how many nubile blondes and redheads trooped in and out of his house.
Not that she was jealous.
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
Well, maybe just a tiny bit.
And she realized she was being silly.
She knew that Jackson held a very responsible position in the government and that he took his job seriously. He wasn’t messing around with the redhead. He’d been working. He told her that he planned to work, and she believed him.
But it was odd that none his “assistants” were plump and gray-haired. Or male.
Not her business, she told herself again. She and Jackson weren’t a couple; they didn’t have any sort of understanding. She had no claim on him.
None.
She quickly turned from the sink, and her gaze fell on the Grafton book that he’d loaned her. She’d just run over and drop it off.
Before she had time to change her mind or scrutinize her motives, Olivia snatched up the book and hurried toward Jackson’s house.
It took forever for him to answer the door.
When he finally yanked it open, a green bath sheet draped around his middle and dripping water, he said, “Jennifer, did you for—” Stopping as soon as he spotted Olivia, he grinned and leaned against the jamb. “Well, hello, darlin’. What a pleasant surprise. Come on in.”
Mortified, she could only mumble, “Sorry. I…I— Here’s your book.” She shoved it at him, turned and walked away quickly.
Jackson called after her several times, but she was too embarrassed to stop.
Served her right, she thought. What further evidence did she need? Rumpled sheets? Jackson was a normal, attractive, red-blooded male. Did she think he was celibate? Certainly not. And she had no right to expect it of him.
But if she didn’t, why did it hurt so much?
Fighting back tears, she clattered up the stairs to her apartment and hurried inside.
Cursing his fumbling fingers, Jackson zipped his jeans, stomped on his boots and grabbed a T-shirt. He pulled the shirt over his wet head as he strode out of his front door and across the street. What had upset Olivia so? Something sure as hell had, but for the life of him he couldn’t figure out what. But then he had a dickens of a headache, and he couldn’t think straight. Sticking his head under the cold water usually helped to chase the pain away.
Had he shocked her by coming to the door with a towel around him? Nothing showed. She’d seen him in less when he wore a bathing suit.
Combing his hair with his fingers, he clomped up her stairs. “Olivia!” he shouted, knocking on the glass pane of her door. “Olivia!”
He saw her peek through the curtain as though she didn’t know who was banging and caterwauling outside.
The door opened a crack. “Shhhh, you’ll wake the dead with all that noise.”
He pushed his way inside. “Why did you take off in such an all-fired rush?”
“I…I came at an inopportune time.”
“Inopportune how? Because I was in the shower?”
“That and…”
“Spit it out, sugar.”
“Well, obviously you and Jennifer—” She glanced away.
“Me and Jennifer…what?”
Olivia stared at the floor.
Then it dawned on him. “You think Jennifer and I—” He laughed. “By damn! You’re jealous.”
“I am not!”
“You are!” He laughed and hugged her to him. “As I live and breathe. You’re jealous.”
She poked him in the belly with her fist. “I am not jealous. I have absolutely no reason to be jealous. What you and Jennifer, or anyone else, do is none of my business.”
“Yes, it is, darlin’. I’m not interested in having anyone in my bed but you. And until you’re ready, I’ll wait. I’m a one-woman man. For the record, Jennifer has a live-in lover who’s a wide receiver for the Texas Longhorns. Heck of a nice kid. By the way, want to go to the game Saturday? We can grab some dinner and go boot-scootin’ afterward. Ever been boot-scootin’?”
“Nope. I’m not much of a country and western dancer.”
“Sugar, you’ve just never had the right partner. I’m a demon on the dance floor.” He grabbed her and did a few fast shuffles and turns.
She laughed. “You’re a demon everywhere, Jackson Crow.”
He wiggled his eyebrows and winked. “You betcha!”
She pushed away. “How about a cup of coffee?”
“I’d love a cup. Got any aspirins?”
“I think so. Have a headache?”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Too much paperwork.”
“Sit down, and I’ll get the aspirins.”
He didn’t have to be told twice. His head was throbbing like a sonofagun.
It must have showed because when she came back, she frowned as she handed him a glass of water and the tablets.
“Do you have these headaches often?”
He shrugged. “Once or twice a week.”
“Maybe you need glasses.”
He shook his head. “Eyesight’s twenty-twenty. It’s just a tension headache.”
She nodded and stepped behind him. When she started to knead the tight muscles of his neck and shoulders, he couldn’t help but moan. “Man, that feels good.”
“I used to do this for my father. He had tension headaches.”
“You never talk about your family.”
“No.”
He waited a long time for her to say more. She didn’t.
Her magical fingers massaged his scalp, his temples, his forehead, then went back to his neck and shoulders. He felt like he’d died and gone to heaven. The muscles relaxed, the pounding in his head slowly left.
He pulled her down into his lap and touched his forehead to hers, then kissed her gently. “Darlin’, I may have to marry you and chain you to my bedpost.”
She went stiff as a poker, then sprang to her feet. “In your dreams, Commissioner.”
Damn! He’d set her off again. When was he ever going to learn not to crowd Olivia? He’d finally wormed enough out of Irish to know that her ex had been a serious control freak, and her daddy was, too. At the first sight of a rein, Olivia would bolt and run. Patience was the key. Patience to let her set the pace.
That ex-husband of hers must have been a real scumbag. Somebody ought to do him some serious damage for screwing up Olivia’s life so badly.
Olivia hadn’t been to a football game in…well, she couldn’t even remember the last one. Certainly not since she’d been in college, she thought as she’d dressed in slacks, two-piece blue sweater set and loafers. She hoped she looked okay.
She needn’t have worried. They’d sat with a gang of Jackson’s old buddies and their ladies in the special club section of the stadium reserved for those who were big contributors to the school. Part of the group wore yuppie casual chic and part wore Western garb similar to Jackson’s, though she had to admit that his jeans, plaid shirt and black felt hat looked twice as good on him. Everybody had yelled for the Texas Longhorns, laughed and eaten peanuts and popcorn and hot dogs.
Jennifer’s boyfriend made two touchdowns, and they won twenty-seven to ten. Olivia had a terrific time.
“Are you a University of Texas alum?” she asked Jackson as they exited through the clubroom.
He grinned. “Sort of. I flunked out my first year. But I made a lot of friends. It’s the best party school in the state. I always make a hefty donation so I can have good seats and decent parking at the football games.”
“Jackson! That’s terrible.”
“It’s the truth. Want me to lie about it?”
She shook her head and smiled. “No, of course not.” That was Jackson. He was a straight shooter. That was one of the things she found endearing about him.
They went to their favorite Mexican restaurant, though Olivia was hard-pressed to find room for food after the junk she’d consumed at the game. She settled on a salad, and they ate on the patio. Although Olivia had experienced only a few cool nights since her move to Austin, she was amazed that the weather was still balmy enough in November to sit outside. Any chill was chased away with fragrant mesquite wood burning in a clay firepot.
After their leisurely meal, they went to a big barn-looking building and parked. Jackson’s pickup truck fitted right in with the sea of others parked out front. She could already feel and hear the twang and rumble of the bass inside.
As she stepped down from the cab, a dozen “yee-haws” split the air, and the sound of a fiddle plucked strings of excitement inside her. By the time they went inside she was quivering on the inside and laughing on the outside, wiggling her shoulders and bobbling her head to the infectious beat.
Jackson slipped a bill to the waiter, and he led them to a table near the dance floor, where couples in a wild mixture of hats and jeans and designer capris whirled and stomped around the floor. Neon sizzled in reds, blues, yellows and greens, and beer flowed from endless pitchers and long-necked bottles. The music’s potent throb vibrated the floor beneath their feet and challenged all comers to join in the revelry.
Jackson didn’t even let her sit down. “Yee-hawww! Sugar, let’s boogie.”
He pulled her onto the floor with him, and, with a loose-hipped rhythm, swung her around and strutted with the counter-clockwise flow of the dancers. How she followed him, she didn’t know—maybe it was a result of Miss Melear’s dance classes—but follow him she did.
“Darlin’, you’re a natural,” he said, grinning as he pushed and twirled and two-stepped to the loud country band.
They danced for a half hour solid until the band took a break. Decidedly damp from the exertion, Olivia fanned her face with her fingers, then mopped it with the handkerchief Jackson offered.
She plunked down in her chair and took a big swig of the bottled water she’d ordered earlier. “I’m not sure my heart can take this,” she said. “I’m exhausted.”
He laughed. “You’re doing great. I thought you said you’d never done any country and western dancing.”
“I haven’t, but it’s not too hard—especially if you’ve had twelve years of dance lessons and watched country music programs on TV. Plus, you’re darned good and have a strong lead.”
“Thank you, ma’am. What kind of dance lessons did you have in…?”
“California,” she supplied, being vague about her origins as usual. “Tap, ballet, jazz, ballroom. My mother insisted—I think because she always wanted to take dancing when she was a child. Then after my mother…died, my father insisted that I keep it up. He contended that it encouraged discipline.”
“Did it?”
“I suppose. Mostly it kept me busy and out of his hair.”
Jackson took a swallow from his long-neck, then asked, “How old were you when your mother died?”
“Ten. She…she took an overdose of sleeping pills. I found her when I came home from school.”
“Oh, darlin’,” he said laying his hand over hers. “I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago. And I don’t want to think about it tonight. I’m having too much fun. Want to play some pool?” She nodded in the direction of the tables filling an anteroom.
He cocked one dark eyebrow. “You play pool?”
“What’s so strange about that? Bet I can beat you.”
“Bite your tongue, sugar. I have a degree in pool.”
She grinned. “I thought it was poker.”
“Double major. Put your money where your mouth is.”
“Five dollars,” she said.
“You’re on.”
She, to borrow one of Jackson’s colorful phrases, cleaned his plow. Cleared the table her first time up.
One hand on his hip, Jackson leaned on his cue and watched her. When the last ball dropped, he shook his head. “I think I’ve just been hustled.”
Olivia laughed. “I told you I was good.”
“Where’d you learn?”
“From my brother. When he got in trouble, my father would ground him, and he would head for the third-floor billiard room. I felt sorry for Jason, so I’d tag along to keep him company. He was in trouble a lot.”
“I’ve never heard you mention your brother before.”
“No.”
“You see much of him?”
She shook her head. “I don’t even know where he is. Jason left home the day he turned eighteen. I haven’t seen him since. Say,” she said, changing the subject before she got maudlin—or revealed more than she wanted to, “the band’s back. I want to learn to line dance.”
“Let’s do it.”
Olivia soon caught on to the steps and was keeping up with the most experienced of the crowd. Afterward Jackson taught her several other dances, but it was the slow ones that he liked best.
“I get to hold you close,” he said, shooting her a wicked grin, then pulling her into his arms.
She had to admit that she liked the slow dances, too. With her forehead on his cheek, the top of her head fitted perfectly under his hat brim. Instead of taking the usual hand and arm position, he put both arms around her waist—after tucking hers around him.
After a couple of turns around the floor, slipping her fingers into the back pockets of his jeans seemed a very good idea.
Excellent, in fact. And rather cheeky. She almost laughed allowed at her Freudian slip. In fact, Freud would have had a field day with her stream of consciousness at that moment.
She’d never realized how erotic a man’s posterior could be. Well…not just any man’s. Jackson’s.
His butt turned her on like crazy.
Taut, sinewy, sexy. His muscles moved and rippled slowly under her fingers.
He pulled he
r closer against him, and she realized that he was turned on as well. She tried to pull away, but he held her tight.
“But, you’re getting, uh, er…”
“Hard as a rock,” he supplied. “Yes, ma’am. But I’ll survive. The man who made a cowboy’s jeans tight was one smart hombre.”
It was after midnight when they finally decided to call it a night. The honky-tonk was still rocking, but Olivia was pooped.
Outside, Jackson put his arm around her as they walked to the truck. “Have a good time?” he asked.
“Wonderful.” She snuggled into the crook of his arm. The wind had kicked up, and the temperature had dropped considerably. “It’s cold.” She shivered against him.
“Front moving in.”
The sky flashed with a streak of lightning, and a couple of seconds later thunder rolled through the hills. A few fat drops of rain pelted them.
Jackson plunked his black cowboy hat on her head. “Let’s make a run for it before the bottom falls out.”
They almost made it.
Yards before they reached the truck, the sky opened and a torrent of cold rain drenched them. Jackson tried to shield her, but it was no use, they were both soaked and shivering by the time they made it inside the cab. He started the truck and pulled away, the wipers sluicing on high.
“It’ll take a minute for the heater to get warm,” he told her.
“How did it get so cold so quickly?” she asked, her teeth chattering.
“Texas weather.”
She tried to dry off with a handful of paper napkins Jackson found under his seat. It was a futile effort. The only place on her that was dry was under the hat she still wore.
He turned the heater on. After an initial blast of cold air, blessed warmth began to push away some of the chill. Jackson leaned forward, concentrating on seeing the road through the deluge, and she watched him concentrate.
Never in her life had just looking at a man thrilled her so, set her blood to boiling and robbed her of sanity. All she could think about was taking off that wet shirt he wore and licking the raindrops from his chest and his face. She ached to feel his hands on her bare skin.
