Irresistible You

by Barbara Boswell

  She willed herself not think about her mother or about Luke Minteer. Somehow, here in the shower, it was easier to occupy her mind with other things. Like her work.

  Since she was almost done with the Kristin paper doll, she would concentrate on the next decade of the twentieth century, the teens. At least she knew what to dub that decade. World War I had dominated the teens, so she would draw a little boy with toy soldiers and flags and a hat made from folded newspapers. He would have a hobby horse and a puppy….

  Brenna was deciding what to name her paper-doll boy— Simon, perhaps?—as she climbed out of the shower and wrapped a big beach towel around her. She’d bought several to use after showering as her pregnancy advanced.

  She was lost in thought, picturing little Simon in the early months of 1918, deciding which books would best serve as references for that particular period.

  The last thing she expected was to find someone in her hallway.

  So when she literally walked right into Luke Minteer, Brenna was caught completely off guard.

  She let out a bloodcurdling scream.

  Luke was so startled by her outburst that he gasped, and they both jumped back, to stand a few paces apart and stare wide-eyed at each other.

  Luke recovered first. “I heard water running and knew you were up.”

  He attempted to smile. It was more than obvious that Brenna was stunned by the sight of him. Alarmed, too?

  “What are you doing here?” she asked warily.

  “Brenna, why wouldn’t I be here?”

  She looked genuinely perplexed, and Luke frowned.

  “I got up about two hours ago. You were sleeping soundly and I figured you wouldn’t wake up for a while, so I went out to my car and got my laptop. I’ve been working downstairs in the kitchen.”

  “Oh.”

  “Did you think I’d left?” Luke’s brows narrowed and he studied her intently. “Or are you on some Lady MacBeth guilt trip, taking a shower, attempting to wash away all traces of—”

  “Oh, please! I’m not that clichéd!”

  “It’s not a cliché, it’s an image. A powerful image. I used it in my first book. The killer’s girlfriend washes her hands compulsively after finding out what her lover has been up to.”

  Brenna rolled her eyes. “The more I hear about that book, the worse it sounds.”

  “Yeah, I’m starting to hate it myself, although I’ll always love those royalty checks from it. The new book I’m working on is much better.”

  They looked at each other.

  “You’d better dry off and get some clothes on,” Luke said at last. “It’s chilly in here. This house is definitely not energy efficient. Your heating bills must make gas company officials smile.”

  As he mentioned it, Brenna felt the cool air on her damp skin. Her freshly shampooed hair was under the towel she’d wound around it, turban-style. She was also suddenly aware that while she stood here wearing only a beach towel, Luke was fully dressed.

  “The road to your house is blocked. It won’t be open until tonight, if then,” she said carefully.

  “That’s not the reason why I’m still here, Brenna.” Luke heaved a sigh. “Although I know convincing you of that isn’t going to be easy. You practically jumped out of your skin when you saw me because you were sure I’d taken off. How am I reading you so far? Right on target?”

  She nodded her head.

  “Will you let me take you to bed and show you I—”

  “No!” exclaimed Brenna. “I just want to get dried and dressed.”

  “Okay, I hear you.” Luke shrugged. “I’ll be downstairs writing in the kitchen.”

  He turned and headed down the stairs, leaving a flummoxed Brenna standing in the hall. Luke hadn’t left. He wasn’t acting any differently toward her despite their intimate interlude earlier.

  She hadn’t anticipated this turn of events and wasn’t sure what they portended. It was mind-bending to have your entire world view altered in an afternoon, and being naked and wet only made it more surreal.

  Brenna quickly put on a chocolate-brown maternity outfit with matching shirt and pants and dried her hair.

  Next, she went into her studio. She took some notes, bookmarked several pages of her reference books and even did a quick preliminary sketch of Simon. Though immersed in her work, she didn’t forget for an instant that Luke Minteer was downstairs in her kitchen, writing about a serial killer.

  But she was back in control of herself and worked for almost three hours before allowing herself to venture downstairs. Since she’d heard no doors opening or closing and no car engines starting, she knew Luke hadn’t left the house.

  And sure enough, there at her kitchen table sat Luke Minteer, working on his laptop, just as he’d said. Even forewarned, the sight amazed her. She paused on the threshold, and Luke looked up.

  Their eyes met.

  “Yeah, I’m still here,” he said dryly. “And you’re still shocked that I am. By the way, I heard on the radio that route 128 was opened about a half hour ago, so that reason is eliminated, Brenna.”

  “They must’ve sent extra crews to get the work done so fast,” she suggested weakly.

  “They must’ve. If I were to say that the reason it was taken care of so quickly is because the mayor’s daughter and her family live up there, I’d sound cynical, wouldn’t I?”

  “Very cynical,” she agreed. “I’m sure His Honor is deeply concerned about all his constituents being inconvenienced by downed trees and power lines.”

  Luke laughed and turned in his chair, holding his arms open to her. “Get over here, Brenna.”

  Acting on pure impulse, without giving herself time to think or consider or analyze, Brenna rushed into his arms. Luke pulled her down on his lap and held her, as she buried her head in the hollow of his shoulder.

  “This is how it should’ve been when you first woke up,” he said quietly. “I should’ve—”

  “There was nothing you should have done, Luke. Nothing you could have done. I probably would’ve been just as spooked if you’d been there when I first woke up. And then we probably would’ve had a fight and I would’ve kicked you out.” She smiled up at him. “At least this way we avoided a scene, and we both got some work done.”

  “It’s been a very productive day.” His tone gave the innocuous words a sensual meaning all their own. And then he kissed her gently, lingeringly.

  When he lifted his lips, she gave a small, contented sigh and rested against him.

  “Brenna, I want you to know that even if we’d had a big fight and you’d kicked me out, I would still be here. And not because of the snow or the road.”

  “Because when ordered to leave, you take it as a challenge and deliberately stay put. Irritates the hell out of people.” She repeated his boast back to him, softly brushing her lips over his as she spoke.

  “True. But in your case, my motives are worthier. I’m here because I want to be with you, Brenna.”

  They kissed, tenderly at first, then deeply, torridly, with a burning urgency. Luke resisted the almost overwhelming desire to take her back to bed, to seek the satisfaction he had so unselfishly denied himself earlier.

  Brenna gave no signs of being averse to that; it would be the natural progression of such fierce, ardent passion.

  And yet, instead of doing what he wanted, Luke found himself in the unique position of being unselfish yet again.

  “You haven’t eaten since breakfast,” he heard himself say.

  He was putting his sexual urges on hold and her nutritional needs first? Now that was a new one. Plus, he sounded a lot like Grandmother Minteer. She faithfully kept track of who’d eaten what and when while under the same roof.

  “You and the baby need some food,” he added, sounding even more Grandmotheresque.

  Brenna laid her hands on his shoulders. “I don’t feel hungry for food right now,” she murmured, her dark eyes cloudy with desire.

  “Sam or Susie begs to differ.”
Luke’s hand rested on his abdomen and felt the wild dance going on within her womb. “He or she is going to kick its way out of there if you don’t send down some chow right away.”

  As if to second Luke’s observation, her stomach growled, an embarrassingly loud noise that could not be ignored.

  “I guess you’re right.” Blushing, Brenna stood up. “I’ll make spaghetti. I have marinara sauce and meatballs from Volario’s Market. Would you like to stay for dinner?” she added uncertainly.

  Luke gazed at her kiss-swollen lips and her tousled hair and decided he’d never seen such an erotic picture. “Oh, yeah. I’d like to stay.”

  After they’d eaten, they sat at the table and talked. Luke told her a bit about the new direction his novel was taking; she told him about her plans for little Simon and his World War I era toys and clothes.

  “Calling a paper doll Simon is a good way to get that name out of your system,” Luke approved. “So now if the baby’s a boy, you’ll name him Sam?”

  “Your campaign against Simon has been surprisingly effective,” acknowledged Brenna. “I’ve decided against using it. But Sam is a name that comes with its own baggage. Uncle Sam, Yosemite Sam, Son of Sam. No, I’m not going with Sam, either. I think I’ll switch to another letter of the alphabet.”

  “How about X? I think Xerxes has a certain ring to it.”

  “It has the ring of getting beat up in the schoolyard.”

  “Okay, let’s try L. What about Lucas? It has all the masculine charm, strength and popularity of Luke but is slightly different. And you could add Minteer, too. Around here the name Minteer is golden.”

  “Don’t you think the name Lucas Minteer Morgan might cause some talk around town?”

  “So what?” Luke grinned. “Talk is cheap. And today’s big news is tomorrow’s nobody-gives-a-damn-about-it story. A whole industry is based on that infallible premise—it’s called publicity, and a savvy PR person can—”

  “You might be right, but I’ve been the subject of enough gossip to last a lifetime,” Brenna cut in fervently. “I don’t want to be big news for even one day. Now that I’m here where nobody knows anything about me, I intend to stay blissfully anonymous.”

  Luke’s mood, his expression, abruptly shifted from lighthearted to dark.

  “Don’t,” Brenna whispered.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t look that way. So angry, so filled with hostility.”

  “But that’s how I feel when I think about you being hurt. I’d like to dismember the creep who did it, and I don’t need any of the details, Brenna. It’s enough to know that you were raped by some scumbag, and if I could kill the guy—”

  “You can’t. Someone beat you to it.”

  The odd expression on her face, the way her voice trembled, told him that the “someone” was not irrelevant to the case. Or to Brenna.

  “Will you tell me who did?” he asked quietly.

  “My mother.” She lifted her chin and met his eyes. “He was her latest boyfriend. I told her right after he moved in—Mom’s boyfriends inevitably moved in with us or we moved in with them, after they’d been dating a week or two—that the way he acted around me was scary. She laughed it off and told me I was being prissy, that he was just a fun-loving teaser. No big deal, she said.”

  “God, Brenna.” Luke laid his hand over hers and she grasped it, wrapping her fingers tightly around his.

  “Turned out she was wrong. One night when Mom went out with some friends from work, he came into my room and raped me,” she said flatly.

  Luke muttered an expletive.

  Brenna swallowed hard and then determinedly pasted a practiced smile on her face. “But that was a long time ago, thirteen years ago, another lifetime ago, for all practical purposes. I don’t dwell on it, I’ve moved on with my life.”

  Luke knew she was giving him the chance to drop the charged topic and switch to something less sordid. To something superficial and pleasant. He also knew there was a time when he would’ve eagerly done just that. He had never been one to willingly open himself to another’s pain.

  But today he didn’t try to escape hearing about the pain and horror Brenna had faced. It was a part of her, and he realized that he wanted all of her. Not just the pleasant social side she showed everybody else, but everything that she was.

  “Thirteen years ago, you were only thirteen! Brenna, you were just a little girl!”

  Luke felt rage course through him. “No wonder your mother killed the bastard.”

  Brenna stared at their linked hands. “You know those books and movies where the mother is an irrepressible free spirit and the daughter is the wise one of the pair, the one who assumes the responsibility and all? Well, in books and movies, it ends well for both—the mother learns a lesson and finally grows up and the daughter gets to be a kid again, after all. But in real life it doesn’t work out that way.”

  “No. I can see how it wouldn’t.”

  “Everything was so different when I lived with my father,” Brenna continued, as if reciting an old dream that she’d repeated many times. “Daddy married my mother because she was pregnant, and they were divorced shortly after I was born. My dad got custody of me, and I lived with him and his parents. Mom rarely visited. I have very few memories of her, until my dad and grandparents were killed in a car accident when I was six.”

  Luke wanted to say something comforting, something wise and profound, but he couldn’t find the words. Her history chilled him. At six he’d been mischievous and carefree, secure within a big family, while she had faced the wreck of her whole world.

  “Did you go to live with your mother then?”

  “Yes. There was insurance money. Taking custody of me was the only way Mom could get her hands on it.”

  “Your mother sounds like a mean piece of work, Brenna.”

  “Marly described herself as zany and spontaneous,” Brenna said wryly. “She couldn’t understand why the rest of the world didn’t acknowledge how special she was. I can remember her ranting about it. She was completely estranged from her own family. According to her, they were ‘dull, hateful prudes.’ My guess is that they were appalled by her and glad to cut the ties. I have no idea who they are or where to look for them, so I never have.”

  “And from the age of six you were essentially without protection, dragged along with your mother’s parade of boyfriends?”

  “I didn’t like any of them, and they didn’t like having me around, either. The only thing that made it bearable was my drawing.”

  Brenna smiled, a genuine smile of pleasure. “I started drawing when I was really little, and Daddy and Gramma and Gramps always encouraged me. By the time I started kindergarten, I had stacks of sketch books and boxes of colored pencils and pens. I could copy almost anything, and I used to entertain the kids at school by drawing pictures of cartoon characters. When I went to live with my mother, school became my refuge. All sixteen of them.”

  “You went to sixteen schools?” Luke was incredulous.

  “Marly wasn’t one to stay in the same place for very long. During the seven years I lived with her, I went to sixteen different schools, but thankfully, I made friends in all of them. My artwork was the key. As I got older, I could do original pictures instead of just copying things, so I’d draw the kids in class as whatever they wanted to be—superheroes, supermodels, even animals. Whatever. I drew the teachers and the mothers of my friends, too, and always made them look gorgeous. It was a surefire way to please people.”

  “But you were a just a child. A kid shouldn’t have to go from school to school, learning how to ingratiate herself. Geez, it’s like a candidate running for office, always having to be likable while scrounging for votes.”

  Brenna actually laughed. “I guess it sort of is. Just think, if I hadn’t been able to draw, I might’ve ended up as a politician.”

  Luke didn’t join in the laughter. He was thinking of his own school years. The same school from kindergart
en through eighth grade, then the same high school for the next four years. His sisters, brothers, cousins and friends had all led the same structured, predictable lives.

  So very different from Brenna’s.

  “Why did your mother keep moving?” he pressed.

  “She was constantly looking for a fresh start.” Brenna heaved a sad, reminiscent sigh. “But it was always the same for her, plunging into new relationships. She would meet a woman who would be her new best friend—until the inevitable blowout that ended the friendship within a few months, if not weeks. It was even worse with men, because she would fall madly in love, invite the new lover to move in or else move in with him, and then the fighting began and the breakup was bitter. The few times a man wanted to stick around and try to work things out, Mom was the one to end it, claiming she felt trapped.”

  “She sounds nuts, Brenna!”

  “She had a personality disorder, according to the court psychiatrists, but that isn’t considered mental illness.” Brenna grimaced. “Mom didn’t think there was anything wrong with her, ever. Even at her trial, she got on the stand and insisted that it was everybody’s else’s fault and she was the true victim.”

  “I bet that went over big.”

  “According to Mom, the jury and the judge all hated her, and so did her own attorney.” Brenna shrugged. “It could be true. I remember her attorney took me to lunch and bought me some art supplies and advised me to cut off contact with Mom when she went to prison. ‘I know Marly’s your mother but she’s bad news,’ he said.”

  “Is your mother still in prison?”

  “Yes. She got a life sentence and won’t be eligible for parole until she’s served twenty years.”

  Luke let out a low whistle. “For killing the man who raped her daughter? I’m no lawyer, but it seems like that might qualify as grounds for temporary insanity or some kind of manslaughter. And having to serve a full twenty years before becoming eligible for parole could be considered severe.”

  “The police and the prosecution didn’t see it that way.”