Stroke of Fortune

by Christine Rimmer

  So in the next few days, it became something of a standing date. He’d have the table set in the sitting room and they would eat dinner there together.

  On Thursday he dropped in around lunchtime to find Josie in her own room, with Lena bobbing happily in a baby swing a few feet from where Josie sat at her computer, typing away.

  Flynt stood in her open doorway, appreciating the view. She had that silvery hair pulled back and anchored low on her neck with one of those scrunchy things and she wore a cheerful-looking pink-and-yellow checked shirt, with a collar but no sleeves. He admired the straight, graceful line of her slim shoulders. No slouching for Josie Lavender. Even sitting at her computer, she held herself up tall and proud.

  Eventually she turned to check on the baby and caught sight of him out of the corner of her eye. “Flynt.” Her smile was blinding, a joy to behold. “Just a minute.” She turned back to the computer and swiftly shut something down.

  She hadn’t exactly invited him in, but the door was open. “What’s going on in here?” He crossed the small room until he stood right behind her.

  In her swing, Lena made a giggling sound, then let out a big sigh. Flynt grinned at the sweet little noises, but he didn’t turn. His eyes were on Josie.

  Her chair had a swivel base. With a jittery trill of laughter, she slid around to face him. Her cheeks were bright pink.

  Something was up. “You’re nervous. What about?”

  He watched her consider telling some kind of fib and then reject that idea. She let out a playful groan. “Oh, all right. I was writing in my journal. Private stuff.”

  He lifted an eyebrow at her. “Stuff about me?”

  “You’ll never know.”

  “Never?” He put on a wounded look.

  “Well…” She relented a little. “Maybe someday. And don’t worry. It’s mostly good stuff. At least for the last few days it’s been good stuff.”

  “The last few days, huh? That’s not much.”

  “It’s a start—and I mean it. My journal is private and I don’t want you snooping around in it. I know you could get through my password protection in ten seconds flat. But you’re an honorable man and you won’t.”

  She was right on both counts. He was something of a whiz kid when it came to computers. He knew several computer languages. In fact, in the military, computers had been his area of expertise. He could write code and he could get through some pretty sophisticated security setups when he needed to.

  But he’d never use his hacking skills to invade Josie’s privacy. He put up a hand, palm out. “Your journal is safe from me.”

  She gave him a tender look. “I know it is.”

  He could have kissed her. But that wasn’t allowed. And since just looking at her mouth was too much of a temptation, he looked elsewhere—at her computer screen. It was crammed full of shortcuts. “Your desktop’s got way too much junk on it. You ought to clean it up. You’ve got icons on here you probably never use.” He reached for the mouse.

  She tapped his hand. “Uh-uh. Back off. This is my machine and I like it just the way it is.”

  “But you could—”

  “No, Flynt. Leave it alone.”

  He shrugged. “Hey, it’s your mess.”

  “You are so right.”

  “How do you like your cable modem?”

  “It’s great. Thanks.” She moved in her chair—just enough to signal him that she wanted to get up. It wouldn’t do, after all, for her to brush against him in passing if she could avoid it.

  He stepped back, thinking that this was the one uncomfortable aspect of this new push to get to know each other better. They were both constantly on guard not to get too close in the physical sense, not to create any dangerous opportunities for the attraction between them to take control.

  She rose to her feet and slid around him. He breathed deeply as she went by. Yeah, he was keeping hands off, but no one said he couldn’t enjoy the clean scent of her hair and the subtle, womanly fragrance of her skin.

  “Come on, darlin’, let’s get you out of there.” She lifted Lena from the swing.

  Flynt suggested, “How about if I have lunch sent up?”

  She had the baby on her shoulder, their heads close together, dark against light. “Sandwiches? In the baby’s room?”

  He took it even further. “We could have a picnic, spread a blanket on the floor.”

  “Flynt.” She gave him another one of those incredible, blinding smiles. “That’s a downright whimsical idea.”

  “Yeah. I’ve always been real big on whimsy.”

  She kissed Lena’s cheek. “How come I never noticed?”

  “Well, all right,” he confessed, “maybe I’m not the most whimsical guy on the planet. And even if I was, in the time we’ve known each other, opportunities for whimsy have often been limited.”

  She kissed Lena again. “Mmm. Limited. I guess that’s right.”

  They both grew serious then, looking into each other’s eyes. He was thinking of his rotten marriage, of the accident, of his battle with the bottle. He had a strong suspicion her mind was tracking along the same lines—maybe with a few extra wrinkles all her own: her mother’s illness, her father’s cruelty, the sad, ugly way Rutger Lavender had died. And what about Lena? That must have been damn tough for her, giving birth to their baby all on her own.

  She smoothed the baby’s soft dark hair. “A picnic is a great idea. Let’s do it.”

  Flynt called downstairs and told Anita what he wanted for their picnic. A half an hour later, a maid appeared with a picnic basket and a big blanket. Flynt spread the blanket on the floor and they laid Lena in a corner of it, with her play station over her to keep her amused.

  Josie loaded up a plate for him and passed him a tall glass of cold tea. “You want some honey on that biscuit?” She held up a squeeze bottle.

  “Squirt it right on there.”

  “Don’t you want it in halves first?”

  He had his plate in one hand and his glass of tea in the other. He held out the plate. “Split it for me, will you?”

  She picked up his biscuit and separated the two soft, warm halves. Steam spiraled up from them. “Mmm. Smells so good. Reynaldo sure knows his way around a batch of biscuits.”

  Reynaldo Cruz had cooked for the Carsons for over twenty years. He could be temperamental, but no one ever complained about the meals that came out of his kitchen.

  Josie aimed the squeeze bottle at one biscuit half and then the other, trailing the honey in matching spirals. “How’s that?” She looked up from his plate and into his eyes.

  And, all at once, the whole thing was sexual.

  Something tightened down inside him. Heat began to spread. All he wanted to do was lean toward her and capture that incredible mouth of hers, to share a long, slow, wet kiss. To set aside his plate and his glass of cold tea and take that squeeze bottle away from her—but maybe keep it close by. Yeah. Definite potential in a squeeze bottle of honey.

  In his mind’s eye, he could see it. A gleaming trail of honey dripping down onto her naked belly, filling the tiny bowl of her navel, puddling in the slight hollow beneath her rib cage, spilling over, sliding along the velvet slopes on either side of her waist. And also slowly edging into the silvery curls that covered the secret place where her thighs joined….

  Josie had tipped the honey bottle upright, but stopped there. She still held it, poised above his plate. The world seemed to have spun to a halt. Her mouth had gone softer than ever. Her pupils were bigger, dark and open. To him.

  “Oh, Flynt…” In a rush, she let out the breath she’d been holding.

  He stared at her mouth and he accepted the fact that it was no damn good trying to keep his hands off her. He wanted a kiss and he wanted it now. He heard himself whisper, “Oh, yeah.”

  They leaned toward each other, a pair of magnets with complementary charges.

  “Josie, I wonder if— Oh!”

  The words—and the shocked exclamation
at the end of them—came from the doorway in that split second before Flynt could take Josie’s mouth. Josie let out a tiny cry of distress and jerked back to her side of the blanket.

  Flynt sucked in a big breath and let it out with care. Then he faced the intruder. “What can we do for you, Ma?”

  Grace looked as if she’d just seen the ghost of Lou Lou Wainwright, pale and Ophelia-like, skin sickly gray, lips blue, dripping water from her own drowning across the floor. “I…well, I…” Grace swallowed, put her hand against her throat.

  Flynt winced at his mother’s reaction. He supposed it didn’t surprise him. She hadn’t been given the whole story here—and she wouldn’t be getting it. Not for a while. Hell, he doubted he would ever tell her all of it.

  Carefully he set down his plate and glass and stood. “Ma—”

  Grace put out a hand and spoke sharply. “No. Please don’t say anything.”

  Dropping the subject suited Flynt just fine, though he had a serious suspicion he’d get an earful later, after his mother had a chance to stew on it a little. In Grace Carson’s world, a man—especially a man she herself had raised up to do right—didn’t make passes at the household help.

  Grace put on a tight smile. “I came up to ask Josie if she would mind taking her time off a little early today. Cara has an appointment in town and my hair-dresser has said she can see me at four-thirty. If Josie could go now and get back by four…”

  Josie stood and brushed the biscuit crumbs from her lap. “Sure. Give me ten minutes. I’ll be ready to go.”

  “Good, then. Ten minutes. I’ll be here.” Grace turned and disappeared down the hall.

  Flynt and Josie were left alone with the baby, who giggled and cooed to herself on the floor while the two adults stared at each other, neither sure what to say. There was, after all, not only Grace’s reaction to their changing relationship to deal with. Beyond that, they had to face the fact that if Grace hadn’t walked in on them, they would have ended up in each other’s arms again—which, for the time being anyway, was the one place they’d agreed not to go.

  Josie worried her full lower lip for a moment. Then she dropped to a crouch on the blanket.

  Flynt realized she intended to clean up the picnic they’d never had a chance to enjoy. “Leave it. One of the maids will get it.”

  “But—”

  “Josie, leave it.” His voice was gruffer than he intended it to be.

  She stood again. “Well, then I guess I should—”

  “Go ahead. Get your purse or whatever. Get ready to go.”

  But she just stood there, looking at him, worrying her lip some more.

  “What?” he demanded after they’d stared at each other for several grim seconds. “Say it, whatever it is.”

  “It’s only…”

  “Yeah?”

  “She was…” Josie hesitated, and then finished lamely, “…really shocked.”

  He wondered what she’d started out to say. “She’ll get over it.”

  “She doesn’t like the idea of you and me together. You saw that look on her face, didn’t you? She doesn’t like it one bit.”

  “She’ll be fine—and I wish you’d just tell me whatever it is you’re not saying.”

  “Oh, Flynt…”

  “Just tell me.”

  “Well, she—she spoke to me about it.”

  He didn’t like the sound of that. “What do you mean?”

  That poor lip of hers got a little more abuse. Then she shook her head. “We’d better just talk about it later.” She started to turn away. He caught her before she could escape. She looked down at where he gripped the smooth flesh of her arm, then into his eyes again. Heat seemed to arc in the air between them.

  He let go. “Answer me.”

  She wrinkled up her nose at him. “Oh, don’t get that look.”

  “You brought it up. Explain yourself.”

  Down on the blanket, Lena was starting to fuss. Josie said, “You mind if I see to the baby?”

  He shrugged.

  She bent, moved the play station and gathered Lena into her arms. The baby quieted instantly. “It was last week. My first day of work.” Josie rocked back on her heels and stood again. “It was all real polite, what she said. And it was nothing direct.” Josie turned for the changing bureau. She laid the baby down and got to work on a diaper change.

  Flynt came and stood behind her—but not too close behind. “What did she say?”

  “She said she thought a nanny job would be too hard on me.” Josie’s hands moved with smooth efficiency as she spoke. She got rid of the soiled diaper, made use of a couple of baby wipes. “She said that a woman my age should have boyfriends, an active social life. That I’d be unhappy alone with just Lena all day long.”

  “And that’s all?”

  Josie used another baby wipe on her own hands, then got down a fresh diaper and slid it under the baby. Lena giggled and waved her arms. Josie bent close to her, kissed the tiny fists as they moved in the air.

  “What else?” Flynt prompted.

  She smoothed the diaper in place and pressed the tabs. “I told you, it was all kind of vague. The message I got from her was that she had realized there was something going on between us. She didn’t like it. So she tried to talk me out of taking care of Lena, to make sure I wouldn’t be right where I am now, living in your wing of the house, around you all the time.” Josie lifted the baby again.

  “Here. I’ll take her.”

  Josie handed her over. “Your mama’s no fool, Flynt. She knows that you don’t put a lighted match to kindling unless you plan on startin’ a fire.”

  Flynt cradled Lena close, cupping the back of her head, damned irritated with his mother—and more than a little put out with Josie, as well. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  She drew her shoulders back, the way she always did when she felt challenged. “I am not someone who carries tales to a man about something his mother has done. And I told you, she never said a thing I could put my finger on, anyway. I was reading between the lines.”

  “You should have told me.”

  “Well, I am telling you now.” Those proud shoulders drooped a little. Lena giggled and then cooed, the sounds soft and sweet, right next to his ear. Josie stared up at him, eyes wide with apprehension. “And I’ll tell you something else. You’ll be hearing more about what your mother thinks of what’s going on between the two of us. And it won’t be vague or polite.”

  What could he say to that? He knew she was right.

  She gave a sad little shrug. “I’d better get ready to go.”

  She left him standing there, holding the baby—and hoping that maybe his mother would have sense enough to think twice before butting in to a situation she didn’t understand and had no business meddling in, anyway.

  That night his father asked for a word with him in the downstairs study.

  Ten

  Ford stood from behind his massive cherrywood desk—a desk that Carson patriarchs had been sitting at since the days when Big Bill rolled his wheelchair up to it. “Cigar, son?” Ford flipped open the humidor that waited on the desk’s outer edge.

  Flynt dropped into a studded leather wing chair facing his father. “You know Ma would have a fit if you actually smoked one of those things.”

  Ford shook his white head in deepest regret and shut the cigars back up in their climate-controlled case. “’Fraid you’re right. I’m not allowed any damn fun anymore.” Since Ford’s heart surgery, Grace watched his diet, carefully monitored his alcohol in-take and strictly forbade his use of anything that involved tobacco products. Ford kept the cigars on his desk now for show and so he could hand them out to guests. He was, after all, a Carson born and raised. He had a cattleman’s image to uphold and that image included being able to offer a good smoke when the occasion demanded.

  Flynt asked, “What did you want to talk to me about, Dad?” As if he didn’t damn well know.

  Ford cleared his th
roat—a thoughtful kind of sound. He sat again, settling back in his huge high-backed oxblood-red leather swivel chair.

  Flynt waited. Sometimes his father took a while to work himself around to the point. There was no sense in trying to hurry him up. He’d get there when he got there.

  Ford leaned back farther, rested his elbows on the padded chair arms and pondered the brass chandelier overhead. Flynt waited. Eventually Ford shifted in the chair, sitting forward, resting both forearms on the desk pad and folding his beefy hands together. “Son, you’ve got your mother pretty worried.”

  Flynt said nothing. There was nothing to say, really, other than Oh? or I have? or Why is that?—all questions that would ultimately have no effect at all on the lecture his father was gearing up to deliver.

  “She saw you with Josie Lavender today.” Ford had scrunched his heavy eyebrows together, giving him a look both grave and reproachful. “Your mother is certain she interrupted what would have been a passionate kiss.”

  Again Flynt said nothing.

  Ford indulged in a second throat-clearing cough. “All right. First, I suppose, I need to just ask you. How far has it gone?”

  Flynt let a moment of weighted silence elapse before answering, “That’s none of your business, Dad.”

  “Of course, it’s my business. You’re my son. This is my house.”

  Flynt couldn’t let that last pass. “Hold on, Dad. I thought we’d settled all that about the house years ago. The way I remember it, we agreed that my wing of the house is my house, not yours. If you’ve decided to change the rules on me, there’s no problem. I’ll find someplace else to—”

  “Now, now. Let’s not go saying things we don’t mean.”

  “Trust me, Dad. I mean what I’m saying. Either my wing is my own, or it’s not. And if it’s not, I’ll move out.”

  “Now listen here. No one wants you moving out. It’s just that your mother’s been concerned about Josie Lavender ever since you insisted on hiring her.”

  “Why?”

  “You know damn well why.”