by Alicia Scott
At the moment, Garret appeared to be edging two semicircles. With a nervous hand, Suzanne ran one finger along the first circle’s smooth, beveled edge.
“A table?” she guessed. Behind her, he nodded, setting the empty glass down on the nearest surface. As she turned, he hefted up the semicircle and clamped it onto a side table. Almost as a secondary thought, he replaced the yellowed goggles over his eyes.
“Stand back,” he said tersely. She obliged quickly, holding one hand over her glass of iced tea. Still, she jumped when he flipped the router on. For the first time, she noticed the penciled line curving a two-inch border along the wood. He followed the line now with the router, moving with a slow and steady patience she wouldn’t have associated with him.
Wood shavings curled up and around the thin router blade, filling the air with the sharp hot odor of fresh-cut wood. Garret’s right arm bulged as he steadied and guided the tool along the groove, sweat beading up and trickling down his back, staining the white patch of his bandage. Her eyes followed every shimmering drop, the scent of sawdust and sweat filling her nose and tightening her stomach. She had to curl her hands around her slippery glass to keep from reaching out and following one of those tracks with her finger.
Garret snapped off the router and examined his work with a critical eye.
“Did…did you help your dad out in the shop often?” she finally asked. He didn’t even turn and look at her.
“Some.”
“What’s the groove for?” she tried asking again.
“Decoration. I thought I’d hammer in beading, maybe a black walnut.”
“That sounds nice.”
Again, only the nod.
“Garret? What’s wrong?”
His hand stilled on the wood, then slowly resumed its tracing of the quarter-inch groove. “Why, Suzanne? Looking for another soul to save?”
“Maybe.” She kept her chin up, refusing to be put off by his apparent surliness. Every time she offered, his answer was the same. Seemed like after all these years, Garret still liked to play the lone rebel.
“Well, don’t worry about mine,” he said expressionlessly. “I’m sure there’s a special place reserved just for SEALs, one filled with guns and booze and big-breasted women.” He could almost feel her lips thinning into that disapproving line behind his back, but he didn’t retract his words. The more she understood the type of man he was, he thought grimly, the better. He kept his eyes on his work and his concentration on keeping his hands steady. His back hurt like bloody hell, and if he wasn’t careful, more stray memories flashed through his mind like stark black-and-white news photos. He could almost imagine reading the captions.
Innocent woman brutally slain.
Women and children killed in senseless slaughter.
In Sarajevo, the savagery continues…
“Garret—”
“Get out, Suzanne.”
“No, darn it, I won’t. Garret, I’m your friend.”
He turned swiftly, slamming the wood down and causing her to jump at the sharp, ringing noise. He pinned her with eyes that were suddenly filled with a black, unholy rage.
“Friend? Why, Suzanne, why the hell be my friend? What the hell is in it for you?”
She swallowed hard, the glass of tea trembling in her hands. “Friendship isn’t about that,” she whispered.
He gave her a look of disgust. “You really are so provincial,” he sneered. “You still think you can take care of everyone, don’t you? Don’t you, Suzanne?”
“No.”
But he didn’t seem to hear her quiet denial. “You can’t, you know. You can’t save anyone, and you can’t save me. You women are all caught up on redemption. The worse the man, the more you want him. Well, I’m not looking for redemption, Suzanne, and I’m not one more of your little pet projects. Stick to your students and your sister. Leave me the hell alone.”
“What did you remember?”
“Damn it, I didn’t remember a thing!”
“What did you remember, Garret?”
Suddenly, he grabbed her glass and threw it against the door. Crystal shards and amber pearls of tea sprayed across the wall, streaking over her skirt. “Nothing. Get out.”
“Garret—”
“I remembered nothing!”
“You remembered something!”
“Damn you, Suzanne. Damn you.” And without warning, before she could move, he grabbed her trembling arm and wrenched her against his granite form. His mouth came down, fierce and bold and angry. He crushed her lips, splitting their tender fullness with his power. She pushed against the solid wall of his chest, but it was like arguing with concrete. His sweat mixed with her blood, stinging her lips and bringing tears of fright and pain to her eyes.
Then just as abruptly, he drew back and practically pushed her from him. She barely caught the wall to hold herself up, then slid down trembling from shock.
“Just stay away from me, okay?” he grated, his breath ragged, his eyes hard. “I leave in the morning, okay? Just give me until then.”
Slowly, she pulled herself up using the wall. Her legs felt weak and watery, and her hair was tumbling down around her face. She looked at him with wary eyes and dragged in a deep, shuddering breath. Tentatively, she touched one finger to her lip and brought it away to see the blood. His eyes followed the movement, his hands clenching at his side when he saw the damage he’d done.
Her round hazel eyes met his dark, condemned gaze. This was Garret, who never liked to see girls cry, she reminded herself. This was Garret, who took on Tank Nemeth for her and her sister. This was Garret, who never liked to admit to needing anyone.
She pushed herself away from the wall. And before he could stop her, she stood on tiptoe and wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing herself fully against his hot, sweaty length. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” she whispered into his ear. “It’s all okay now.”
And then he was trembling in her arms, his large hands clutching her back as if she was the only shelter from the storm. He pressed his head against her hair, and she felt another shudder rack his granite frame.
With soft, soothing words, she rocked him in her arms, her hands combing through the ends of his hair. She felt beads of moisture fall against her cheek, tangy and salty. And from somewhere low in his throat came the soft, lonely cry of a man’s anguish.
He tipped her head up, seeking to find her lips with his own. The kiss was no longer harsh or forceful; instead, his tongue plundered her mouth with aching need and desperate hunger. He soothed her cracked lip with his tongue, then delved deep into her mouth once more. She arched back, clinging to his shoulders and returning his kiss just as passionately. The slow, skillful seduction was gone, and she responded far more wildly to his raw, shuddering need.
He hoisted her up onto the saw table, and she let him, her mouth still pressed against his own. He pushed her crushedsilk skirt up to her thighs, then wrapped her legs around his waist. It positioned her hips intimately against the hot bulge of his jeans, and she rubbed against him instinctively.
He kissed her deeper, streaking her cheeks with sweat and tears. And still she didn’t protest, only held him tighter. Her hair fell completely free, his large hands burying themselves in the fine strands. He combed through them as if they were as thick and luxurious as sable, and she felt her throat burn. He needed her. Garret Guiness needed her.
She wrapped her tongue around his own, drawing him into her mouth and reveling in the tangy taste of salt and sawdust. His hands clutched her shoulders, and he rotated his hips suggestively. She thought she might spontaneously combust.
He trailed kisses down her throat, and now he was the one whispering soft words of encouragement. His head slipped down, his silky, damp hair brushing against her chin as his tongue dipped between the valley of her breasts. She arched her back, knowing already where she wanted his lips, where she needed his touch. He pulled down the scoop neckline of her blouse, freeing her breast. Slowly, almost tend
erly, he drew the nipple between his lips and sucked hard.
She cried out, her legs tightening fiercely around his hips as ribbons of desire spiraled all the way down and exploded deep within her. He sucked again, laving the rigid nipple with his tongue and lips until her blood roared wildly in a maelstrom of sensation.
She whimpered low in her throat and felt his thick words of encouragement against her neck. Her hands gripped his forearms, drawing upon his strength. She splayed her fingers across his chest, reveling in the hard contours and rippling muscles. Experimentally, she drew her hands down and felt him suck in breath. For a long moment, her hands lingered at the edge of his jeans, wanting and suddenly afraid of the need.
“Please,” he whispered hoarsely, his lips suddenly stilled against her cheek. “Suzanne…”
Her fingers slid over the stiffness of new denim and pressed around his rigid length. He arched against her touch, and she felt the first rush of sensuous power.
But then his fingers drifted up the inside of her thighs, drawing heated little circles as he went. Breathless, she stiffened, suddenly unsure. His forefinger reached her damp panties and rubbed hard.
Her back bowed unconsciously, her hips arching to meet his touch. Her breath caught in her throat, and she could no longer breathe. The intensity was overwhelming, the need washing over her like a thunderous wave.
And all of a sudden, she was frightened. She could feel the burning outline of him against her hand, powerful and large. And his fingers moved against her, experienced and knowing, like a musician playing an intimately familiar tune. But she didn’t know the music and she didn’t know the chords.
He was the one who traveled with three condoms in his wallet, and he was the one who obviously knew more about the female body than she herself had even guessed. For him, the knowledge was a tiny part of the universe he roamed. For her, it was everything.
And she just couldn’t bear to give him so much. Not when, for him, the need would end with the moment, while for her it would go on for all the lonely nights and endless years to come. And this time, he wouldn’t even be whispering “Someday” under the soft cover of rain.
She pushed at his chest with one powerful surge, catching him off guard.
“I can’t,” she gasped out. “I just can’t.”
He reached for her, but she was already scrambling down from the table, half-tripping as she tugged at her skirt and blouse.
“Suzanne…” he tried to say, but the words were too thick in his throat. She caught his eyes, black and glittering with raw need, while the sweat and sawdust streaked down his cheeks.
He made another attempt to hold her but she simply couldn’t bear the pain. She grabbed the door and thrust it open upon the sultry July dusk.
She fled toward the house and never looked back at the wordless hunger in his eyes.
Upstairs, she stripped off yet another ruined skirt and blouse, figuring if her emotional wreckage wasn’t enough, she should at least consider Garret’s impact on her dry-cleaning bill. But the watery smile the thought brought to her lips still wasn’t enough for comfort.
She took a long shower, scouring her skin as if that would remove all traces of his touch. But the pounding spray only tortured her swollen breasts and overwrought nerves. In the end, she shut off the old faucets with more force than necessary, cursing Garret Guiness under her breath.
She should have just left him on her porch half-dead a week ago. All he’d ever brought her were fragile hopes that died bitter deaths, and she was too old to need him to beat up Tank Nemeth anymore. These days, she fought her own battles.
But as she drifted through her closet, trying to find something new to wear, she wondered how many of the wars she’d actually won.
She still lived in the same house she’d grown up in. Still fell asleep in the same room, with the same hand-sewn comforter, looking at the same white cotton curtains. She could follow the years of her life in the tiny notches she and Rachel had made in her old dresser until they’d finally outgrown it completely.
Rachel’s room still remained untouched and waiting for a homecoming that would never happen. Down the hall, her mother’s room was also the same, except empty gin bottles no longer neatly lined the closet.
She’d grown up trying to save her mother and, in the end, could only hold her hand and listen to her soft groans as she lay dying. Now she stockpiled money on the off chance her sister might actually leave the lout who was her husband. And she taught other people’s children, counseled other married people and assisted with other people’s lives.
And for what?
She found no answers in her closet, just a long line of dresses. Well, at least her taste in clothing had improved. Her lips twisted wryly as she pulled on a simple cotton dress, the yellow-and-green flowered fabric flowing gently over her rounded form. She walked back into the bathroom to blowdry her hair, but found herself staring at the woman in the mirror instead.
She was thirty-two years old now. There were lines crinkling the corners of her eyes, and fifteen pounds around her hips that she’d always meant to lose but never quite had the incentive. She was growing old, she thought suddenly, and she was growing lonely.
She lived by herself in a seven-bedroom house she would one day leave to the church because her sister would never come back to Maddensfield, and there were no other Montgomerys left.
She collected dolls for a daughter she would never have and slept alone in a bed that had never seen company.
What had ever happened to all those dreams she’d had so long ago? When had all the days suddenly rolled into months, and the months into years? She’d thought that after her mother died, she would work on her personal life. But then, money was so tight she’d had to work three jobs to survive the medical bankruptcy. And somehow, time had just slipped away, each year turning into another year. Until she was no longer young and fresh and spirited. She became a serious, practical, efficient woman. And the town spinster.
She rested heavily against the sink, feeling her heart thunder suddenly in her chest. And she knew what she was going to do.
She wanted her moment. She wanted one moment of selfishness, one moment to know all the things other people whispered of. She wanted the intensity; she wanted the passion. She wanted Garret’s lips on her own, his fingers running down her body and making her feel all the things she’d never felt before. She knew he wanted her, and after all these years, she knew she still wanted him. Who better to give her her moment than a man who traveled with three condoms in his wallet?
Her hands clenched and unclenched the folds of her skirt while she let the thought take hold.
Garret still wouldn’t stay. She needed to remember that. But she wasn’t sixteen anymore, and she didn’t whisper silly words in the rain. What she wanted from him was his experience. It would be an even transaction, a sharing of mutual desire and satisfaction.
Once more, practical. She felt a wry smile twist her lips and wondered at the sudden burning in her throat.
There were so many things about herself she would never tell him. So many nights so long ago when she’d needed him and he hadn’t been there. So many dreams he’d started, never to come back to fulfill. So many times she’d lain dryeyed in her bed and wondered if the loneliness ever got any easier to bear.
So many moments when she’d looked at him and known that she loved him.
She took a deep breath and willed the tightness away. She wasn’t a silly girl anymore; now she looked at the world with a woman’s eyes. She didn’t need a hero. She just wanted a couple of warm days and passionate nights. Time taught compromise.
She reached for the dusty compact of forgotten eye shadow and felt her hand begin to tremble.
* * *
When she walked down the stairs thirty minutes later, she thought her intentions must show in her face. She’d spent far too long on her hair, trying valiantly to style it to reflect some sort of glamour. In the end, she’d settled for a loo
se French braid, and she could already feel the fine strands slipping free. But after a few false starts, she’d managed to highlight her eyes nicely with the soft brown eye shadow. An additional touch of green emphasized the golden flecks in her hazel eyes.
Now, she simply held in her stomach, wondered if she’d dabbed on too much perfume and tried to keep a smile on her face.
She stopped in front of his bedroom door and took a last, deep breath. She raised her hand and rapped gently. The door flew open, and her smile froze.
“What?” he growled. His hair was damp from his own shower, and she could smell the fresh, tantalizing fragrance of soap and shampoo. Once again, his shirt hung unbuttoned, revealing the crispy black mat of his chest hair.
“Hungry?” she ventured softly.
His black eyes raked up and down her figure, lingering for a moment on her new hairstyle. “What are you offering?” he asked, his voice low.
Coffee, tea or me, her mind singsonged. “S-steak,” she stammered out instead. Her hands crushed her skirt.
He nodded curtly, but his eyes remained considerately on her face. “All right. Anything I can do to help?”
She shook her head. If she had to move around with him in the kitchen, she’d lose her nerve completely. She was beginning to wish she could serve wine with dinner to loosen herself up, except she didn’t buy alcohol. Ever.
“Forty-five minutes?” she suggested, her gaze falling down onto his chest until she caught herself at the last minute and forced it up.
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
She stood there a minute longer, her nerves wound tighter than she’d ever anticipated. Kindergarten teachers didn’t receive training in slow seduction. She took another deep breath.
“I’ll go fix dinner now,” she announced. He looked at her strangely and nodded. “Okay,” she said.
“Okay,” he replied.
She turned and marched back down the hall to the safety of her kitchen. More of her hair slid free to wrap around her cheek.
