“You have.”
“Not nude.” Very gently he eased back the covers, allowing himself a full view of her body. His gaze touched her waist, the visible line of her pelvis and the length of her legs before returning to linger on the shadowed apex of her thighs. “You’re lovely.”
Leah was trembling, but not only because of the way he was looking and the sensual sound of his voice. When he’d pulled back the covers he’d bared himself, as well, and what she saw was breathtaking. With his tapering torso, his lean hips and tightly muscled legs, he was a great subject for a sculptor. But it was his sex that held her spellbound, for it was perfectly formed, incredibly full and heavy.
“I do want you,” he whispered. “I think I’ve been like this all night, dreaming of you.”
“You don’t have to dream,” she breathed. “I’m here.”
“So hard to believe …” Shifting so that he crouched over her, he let his hands drift over each part of her in turn. When he reached her belly, he sat back on his haunches, then watched his fingers lower to brush the dark tangle of curls. He stroked her lightly, but even that light touch spread heat like wildfire through her veins.
“Garrick …”
“Warm and beautiful.”
“I need you …”
His eyes met hers, and there was an intensity in them that held more than one form of passion. “I want you too. I want that more than anything.”
When she reached for him, he lifted her and crushed her close. They held each other that way for a long time, bodies flush, limbs faintly quivering. Oddly, the desire to make love passed, replaced by the gratification of simply being together. At that moment it seemed much more precious than anything else in the world.
Garrick’s arms were the first to slacken. “I need a shower,” he said in a voice lingering with emotion. “Want to share?”
“I’ve never taken a shower with a man before.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
“Are you game?”
“If you are. It’s a large shower.”
“I’m a large man.”
“Which means—”
“We’ll be close.”
“I’d like that.”
“Me, too.” Scooping her into his arms, he rolled to the edge of the bed. “Come on.”
“I can walk.”
“The floor’s cold.”
“You’re walking.”
“Would you rather switch places?”
“You’re too heavy.”
“Then hush.”
When he reached the bathroom, he lowered her feet to the floor, turned to start the water, then knelt before her and very gently removed the bandage from her leg. She’d given up on gauze and adhesive the day before in favor of a Band-Aid, and the only discomfort she still felt was from the black-and-blue area surrounding the cut.
“Looks okay,” he decided, then slid his gaze leisurely up her body. “I like the rest better, though.”
She finger-combed his hair back from his forehead. “I’m glad.”
After pressing a soft kiss on her navel, he stood and led her into the shower. They soaped themselves and then, for the hell of it, each other. And it was hell in some ways, because the glide of suds beneath palms over various bodily areas was erotic, but they didn’t want to make love. Resisting the temptation was in part a game, in part a way of saying that there was more to their relationship than sex.
Touching was totally acceptable, and they did it constantly. It astounded Leah that two people who’d been alone for so long could adapt so easily to such closeness. Or maybe it was because they’d been alone that they were greedy. Either way, they never strayed far from each other. They watched each other dress—chipping in to help here and there with a button or a sock. Likewise, they chipped in making breakfast, then ate with their legs entwined under the table.
And they talked—constantly and about anything that came to mind.
“I love your hair,” Garrick said. He’d settled her onto his lap when she’d come around to clear his plate. “Have you always worn it this way?”
“No. I had it cut the day my divorce became final.”
“Celebrating?”
“Declaring my independence. When I was little I always wore my hair long. My mother loved combing it and curling it and tying it up with ribbons. Richard liked it long, too. It was part of the image. He thought long hair was alluring. Y’know,” she drawled, “waving tresses sweeping over sequined shoulders.” Her voice returned to its normal timbre. “Sometimes he’d have me wear it up, sometimes hitched back with a fancy comb. I used to have to spend hours getting it to look just right. I hated it.”
“So you cut it.”
“Yup.”
He stroked the silky strands. “It’s so pretty this way.”
“It’s easy.”
“Then pretty and easy.” He scalloped a gentle thumb through her bangs. “Did you like going out?”
“Where?”
“To parties, restaurants.”
“With Richard? No. And I still don’t like parties, but maybe that’s because I feel awkward.”
“Why would you feel awkward?” he asked in the same gravelly voice she found so soothing. It eased her over the embarrassment of expressing particular thoughts.
“I’ve never been a social butterfly. I was shy.”
“Shy? Really?”
Smiling, she wrapped her arms around his neck and nuzzled his hair. “Really.”
“Why shy?”
Sitting back, she shrugged. “I don’t know. I was an English major, a bookworm, an … intellectual. I suppose one of the things that snowed me about Richard was that he was good with people in a way I wasn’t. I could go places with him and be part of the crowd in a way I’d never been.”
“Did you like that?”
“I thought I would, and I did at first. Then I realized that I wasn’t really part of the crowd. He was, but I wasn’t. I was just along for the ride, but the ride wasn’t fun. The people were boring. I didn’t have much to say to them. Richard was always after me to be more pleasant, and I could be charming when I tried, but under the circumstances, I hated it. The whole thing came to be uncomfortable.”
He eased her to her feet and reached for the plates. “I can understand that.”
Leah didn’t have to ask him if he agreed, because she knew he did. If he liked crowds and parties and small talk, he’d never have chosen to live alone in the woods. As they began to load the dishwasher, it occurred to her to ask why he’d chosen to live this way. Instead she asked, “Why are you studying Latin?”
“Because it’s interesting. So many of our words have Latin derivatives.”
“You didn’t study it as a kid?”
“Nope. I studied Spanish. My mom was a Spanish professor.”
“No kidding!”
“No kidding.” The way he said it—part drawl, part resignation—suggested more to the story. This particular chapter didn’t threaten Leah.
“Oh-oh. It wasn’t great?”
“She was very involved in her work. When she wasn’t teaching, she was traveling to one Spanish-speaking area or another, and when she wasn’t doing that, she was entertaining students at our house.”
“You didn’t like that?”
“I would have liked a little of her attention myself.”
“What about your father? What did he do?”
“He was a gastroenterologist.”
“And very busy.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You were alone a lot.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
He shook his head and handed her the pan he’d just washed. “How about you?”
“I was an only, too. But my parents doted on me. Isn’t it strange that we should have had such different experiences? Perhaps if we’d been able to put our four parents in a barrel and shake them up, we’d each have had a little more of what we
needed.”
He chuckled, but it was a sad sound. “If only.”
When they finished cleaning the kitchen, Garrick made a fire, then sat on the floor with his back against the sofa and pulled Leah between his legs. She nestled into the haven, crossing her arms over those stronger, more manly ones that wound around her middle.
“Have you always worn glasses?” he asked, his breath warm by her ear.
“From the time I was twelve. I wore contacts for Richard, but I never really liked them.”
“Why not?”
“It was a pain—putting them in every morning, taking them out and cleaning them every night, enzyming them once a week. Besides, nearsightedness is me. On principle alone, I don’t see why I should have to hide it.”
“You look adorable with glasses.”
Smiling, she offered a soft, “Thank you.” Her smile lingered for a long time. “This is … so … nice,” she whispered at last. “I feel so peaceful.” She tipped her head back to see his face. “Is that what you feel living up here?”
“More so since you’ve come.”
“But before. Is it the peace that appeals to you?”
“It’s lots of things. Peace, yes. Lack of hassle. I work hard enough, but at my own speed.”
Implicit was the suggestion that he’d known something very different four years before. Again she had an opportunity to probe that past. Again she let it slide. Returning her gaze to the fire, she asked, “Do you ever get bored?”
“No. There’s always something to do.”
“When did you learn to whittle?”
“Soon after I came.”
“Did the trapper teach you?”
“I taught myself. One good instruction book, and I was on my way.”
“What do you make?”
“Whatever strikes me. Mostly carvings of animals I see in the woods.”
“I don’t see any here. Don’t you keep them?”
“Some.” They were out in the shed, which he’d come to think of as a sort of studio-gallery. “I give some away. I sell some.”
“Do you?” she asked, grinning widely. “You must be good.”
“Yes to the first, I don’t know to the second.”
“If people buy them …” she said in a tone that made her point. “Have you always been artistic?” Images of the artists Richard employed crossed her mind. There was a high burnout rate in the advertising world. Perhaps that was what had happened to Garrick.
But he was shaking his head, his chin ruffling her hair. “Not particularly. It was only after I came here that I found I liked working with my hands.”
“You’re very good with your hands,” she teased, and was rewarded with a tickle. “Anyway, I think it’s great. Do you have to use special kinds of wood when you whittle?”
“Soft wood is best—like white pine. It has few knots and very little grain. I use harder wood—birch or maple—when I carve chessmen.”
“You make chess sets?”
He nodded. “Do you play?”
“No, but I’ve always admired beautiful sets in store windows. More than once, I thought of buying one just to use it for decoration on a coffee table, but somehow that seemed pretentious. I play checkers, though. Have you ever carved a checker set?”
“Not yet, but I can. God, I haven’t played checkers since I was a kid!”
“It’d be fun,” she mused. “What about knives?”
“I never played with them.”
“Whittling. Do you have special knives? The thing you were using the other night looked like a regular old jackknife.”
“It was.”
Again she tipped back her head, this time looking up at him in surprise. “A regular old jackknife?”
“Carefully sharpened. It has three blades. I use the largest for rough cutting and the two smaller ones for close work.”
She was staring at him, fascinated. “You have beautiful eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen hazel shot with silver like that.”
The suddenness of the comment took Garrick off guard. It was the type of observation he was used to from his past, yet now it was different. As it sank in, he felt a warming all over. He liked it when Leah complimented him, didn’t even mind that she’d been distracted from what he’d been saying. Strange that she didn’t recognize him …
“Do you ever watch television?” he asked.
“Rarely. Why?”
“I was just wondering … whether you missed it up here.”
“No,” she answered, turning her head forward, “and I don’t miss a phone, either.”
“Didn’t use it much at home?”
“Yes.”
“Then why don’t you miss it now?”
“Because in New York it’s a necessity. You have to call to find out whether the book you ordered arrived or to make a reservation at a restaurant. You have to call a friend in advance to make a date for lunch. Up here you don’t.”
“Did you leave many friends in New York?”
“A few. It’s only since my divorce that I’ve been able to cultivate friendships. Richard wasn’t interested in the people I liked.”
“Why not?”
“He didn’t think they were useful enough.”
“Ahh, he’s the user type.”
“He didn’t step on people. He simply avoided those with whom he couldn’t clearly identify. He had to feel that there was a purpose in any and every social contact. Getting together with someone simply because you liked him or her didn’t qualify as purposeful in Richard’s mind.”
Garrick was about to say something critical, when he caught himself. He’d been guilty of the same thing once, only it sounded as though Richard had weathered it better. So who was he to throw stones?
Shifting Leah so that she was cradled sideways on his lap, he asked softly, “What are your friends like?”
Arms looped loosely around his neck, she brushed her thumb against his beard. “Victoria you know. Then there’s Greta. We met at a cooking class. She has a phenomenal mathematical mind.”
“What does she do?”
“She’s an accountant.”
“Do you see each other often?”
“Once every few weeks.”
“What do you do together?”
“Shop.”
“Shop? That’s the last thing I’d expect an accountant to want to do.”
“She doesn’t want to. She has to. She’s in a large firm that makes certain demands, one of which is that she look reasonably well put together. Poor Greta is the first to admit she has no taste at all when it comes to clothes. When we go shopping, I help her choose things, soup to nuts.” She grinned. “I’m great at spending other people’s money.”
“That’s naughty.”
“Not when it’s at their own request and for their own good.”
“Is Greta pleased with the results?”
“Definitely.”
“Then I guess it’s okay. Who are some of your other friends?”
“There’s Arlen.”
“Is that a he or a she?”
“A she. I don’t have any male friends. Except you.” She plopped a wet kiss on his cheek. “You’re a nice man.”
“That’s what you say now,” he teased. “Wait till you know me better.” He’d been thinking about cabin fever, about what could happen to two people, however compatible, when they were stuck with each other day after day. He knew it wouldn’t bother him; he was used to the mountain, and he loved Leah. But suddenly he wasn’t even thinking about whether Leah loved him back. He was thinking about all he hadn’t told her about himself. What he’d said had to have been a Freudian slip.
“I am a nice man,” he said seriously. “I wasn’t always. But those days are done.” He took a quick breath. “Tell me about Arlen.”
Leah studied his face a minute longer, unaware of the fear in her eyes. I wasn’t always, he’d said. What had he been before? Oh, Lord, she didn’t want anything to pop her bubble of ha
ppiness. Not when she’d waited all her life to find it!
“Arlen.” She cleared her throat. “Arlen and I met in the waiting room of the dentist’s office. Three years ago, actually.” They’d both been pregnant at the time. “We struck up a friendship and kept in touch, then started getting together after Richard and I split. She helped me through some rough times.”
“The divorce?”
That, too. “Yes.”
“Does she work?”
“Like a dog. She has five kids under the age of eight.”
“Whew. She isn’t a single mother, is she?”
“No, and her husband’s as lovely as she is. They live in Port Washington. I’ve been to their home several times. She barbecues a mean hot dog.”
He grinned. “You like hot dogs?”
“Yeah, but y’know which ones I like best?”
“No. Which ones?”
“You’ll think I’m crazy.”
“Which ones?”
“The ones you buy at the stands on the edge of Central Park. There’s something about the atmosphere—”
“Diesel fumes, horse dung and pigeon shit.”
She jabbed at his chest with a playful fist. “You’re polluting the image! Think gorgeous spring day when the leaves are just coming into bloom, or hot summer day when the park is an oasis in the middle of the city. Brisk fall day when the leaves flutter to the ground. There’s something about visiting the park on days like those and eating a hot dog that may very well kill you that’s … that’s sybaritic.”
“Sybaritic?”
“Well, maybe not sybaritic. How about frivolous?”
“I can live with that.” He could also come close to duplicating a sybaritic kind of atmosphere for her here on the mountain. “What else do you like about New York?”
“The anonymity. I feel threatened by large groups that know me and expect certain things that I may or may not be able to deliver. I don’t like to have to conform to other people’s standards.”
He knew that what she was voicing related in part to the shyness she’d mentioned, but that it was a legacy of her marriage to Richard, as well. He was also stunned because the threat was one he himself felt.
“I’m a total unknown on the streets of New York,” she went on. “I can pick and choose my friends and do my own thing without being censured. I think I’d die in a small suburban community. I don’t want to have to keep up with the Joneses.”
Crossed Hearts (Matchmaker Trilogy) Page 12
