She smiled, her eyes glowing as she accepted them. Bending her head into the velvety petals, she inhaled their scent, then closed her eyes and very slowly moved her chin and cheek and nose over the flowers in an unselfconsciously sensual gesture. “Thank you.”
He stepped closer, drawn against his will. Taking her free hand, he lifted it to his lips, allowing himself to taste the heat and silkiness of her flesh for an instant before he let her go. “It was my pleasure.”
“How gallant you are,” she said, flashing her inviting smile. “Perhaps I should call you Lancelot instead of Alexander!”
“Traitor’s name!” he protested jovially.
“Ahh.” The word was a sigh. “Then you must be Arthur himself. I should have known it.”
He smiled, enjoying himself. “And what would lead you to such a conclusion?”
A hint of color touched her cheeks and she lowered her eyes for a moment. He wondered how such a vitally sensual woman could have learned to be shy and thought again that her ex-husband must have been a fool.
It was an impression that was trebled when Esther lifted her deep brown eyes. A sparkle of humor and passion shimmered there as she said, “You just have a kingly way,” she teased.
He stepped closer. Above the heady mixture of chocolate and irises, he could smell Esther herself now, a soft scent of lavender. Deliberately, he let his eyes skim the scoop neck of her dress, where a luscious swell of breasts peeked out. “I seem to remember Esther is the name of a queen,” he said quietly.
“So it is.” She didn’t draw back this time. Instead, a throaty chuckle escaped her throat at some private vision. “I have to get these flowers in water,” she said and slipped away from him.
Alexander watched her at the sink, admiring the fullness of her hips and the dip of her waist, aware that he was deeply aroused by simply talking with the glorious Esther. “I’ll carry these outside, shall I?” he said, picking up bowls of strawberries and chunks of watermelon.
The meal, as far as Alexander was concerned, was equal parts heaven and hell. The sandwiches went ignored as they all helped themselves to chunks of pears and watermelon, bits of cheese and bread, sips of the crisp wine. Around them, birds twittered and insects zoomed through on busy errands.
“Not bad, huh?” Abe said, dipping a slice of apple into the common pot of chocolate.
“It’s delicious,” Alexander agreed. “I gather it’s something of a tradition?”
Esther laughed, the sound as golden as the thick, late light. “Food is our tradition.” She idly lifted a small triangle of watermelon and flicked the visible seeds away with a finger. “No one on the block could eat as much as we could.”
“You have to understand,” Abe cut in, “that the lovely lady you see before you grew eight inches in a single year.” He chuckled. “Four more in her feet.”
“And he grew ten,” Esther said, slapping his arm. “Twelve in his feet.”
Alexander chuckled at their teasing. He’d not been quite certain of their relationship at first. Now it was plain they were very close, but like siblings. He shifted his gaze to Esther, admiring without urgency the tendrils of blazing hair against her cheek.
She caught his gaze. “What were you like at fourteen, Alexander?”
“I can barely remember fourteen,” he said with a frown. Suddenly he did remember. “Ah. Grammar school. My best friend was James Dervish and we used to go to movies to try to pick up girls.”
“Without any luck, I bet,” Abe put in.
“Abe!” Esther protested.
“Hey, I was fourteen once, remember?” He glanced at Alexander. “The ones you like always had—” he cleared his throat “—outrageous figures and a lot of eyeliner, and they wouldn’t give you the time of day for a hundred bucks.”
“We must have gone to the same movies,” Alexander said with a laugh.
“Me and my girlfriend Judith were the skinny girls in the balcony, trying to get the big boys’ attention,” Esther said.
“Until Judith bloomed,” Abe said with a chortle.
Esther cocked her head, smiling. “That’s when I took to horror novels. You can’t go to the movies alone, after all.”
“Horror novels?” Alexander echoed.
Esther held back a smile, her sleepy eyes glittering with humor. “My secret addiction,” she said.
“Do you mean Frankenstein and Dracula, that sort of thing?”
“Well, back then, I had to make do a lot with those creepy comic books—you know, Tales from the Crypt and Eerie Tales.”
Alexander had a vision of a thin, young Esther, hair in pigtails, wiling the summer away with gore-splashed comic books. He chuckled. “And now?”
“There still aren’t many good ghost stories, unfortunately, but there’s almost anything else. It’s practically a horror renaissance.” She shrugged, as if feeling a little defensive. “It’s not for everyone, I admit.”
“My mother loved ghost stories,” Alexander said, taking up another strawberry. “One of her favorites was The Haunting of Hill House.”
“Oh, that’s a wonderful book!” Esther leaned forward eagerly. “Have you ever seen the movie? It’s terrifying!” She shuddered for effect. “There’s a scene where the woman reaches out to hold hands with her friend, while this child is crying and crying and crying…and when it’s over, she looks down and she is holding hands with nothing. It’s great!”
Abe shook his head. “You’re one sick puppy, Esther Lucas. Horror novels.” He looked at Alexander. “What do you read?”
Comfortably he leaned back. “History, of course.” He winked at Esther. “But I’ve got my own secret addiction to suspense and murder mysteries.”
“Ha!” Esther cried, slapping Abe’s shoulder playfully. “See? You’re the only stuffed shirt around here.”
“America,” Abe pronounced in an exaggeratedly droll voice, with a shake of his head. “In thirty years, literary fiction will be dead, killed by indifference.” But he smiled as he said it, and Alexander realized it was another long-standing argument between them.
“I’m too stuffed to debate with you,” Esther said with a sigh. “And it’s much too nice an evening. I’ll just let you screen out all the boring stuff so that I don’t have to waste my time.”
Alexander smiled, then excused himself for a moment.
Although they had all been laughing and talking through the meal, by the time the sun had dropped to shine like an impaled ball on the points of the mountains, Esther noticed the lines of strain around Abe’s mouth. She waited until Alexander stepped inside for a moment, then touched her friend’s hand. “You don’t look well.”
He managed a wry grin. “Trying to get rid of me?”
“You know better.” She squeezed his hand. “And I know you too well to be fooled by that brave expression. If you’ve had a bad week, you’d best get home and get to bed.”
“I guess I should,” he said without enthusiasm. His dark eyes fixed on the horizon and Esther saw the loneliness in them.
“Why don’t you stay here tonight?” she suggested. “You can sleep in one of the boys’ beds and in the morning, we’ll have brunch.”
“You always see right through me,” he said. “I’ve been stuck in that apartment a lot lately.” He stood up stiffly and kissed her head affectionately. “Thanks for the offer. Does it matter which bed and can I go up right now?”
“I’ll come up with you.”
“Nah.” The answer was firm. “I’ll find my own way.” He gave her a wink. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
He disappeared inside and Esther picked up her glass of wine reflectively. Through the pale amber liquid, the herb gardens were a blur of leaves and paths, as inviting as an Impressionist painting. The sun sank abruptly behind a mountain peak and the world was plunged into a pale purple dusk. She sighed, sated with food and quiet and good company.
So when Alexander noiselessly joined her, she looked at him comfortably, at ease with hi
m in a way she hadn’t been before tonight.
“Are those your herb gardens?” he asked, gesturing.
“Yes. Would you like to see them?”
“Will you tell me all their magical properties?” he asked with a quirk of his lips. “Or is that sacred wisdom, passed only into the hands of women?”
Esther stood, cocking her head as if in serious consideration. “Well, if men had not overtaken the medical establishment with such bluster, they’d have had this knowledge themselves.” At the edge of the garden, she slipped off her sandals and glanced over her shoulder at Alexander. “Since you are simply a good man of letters, I suppose I won’t be shattering any secret trust.”
“Is it holy ground?”
“Pardon me?”
He pointed to her bare feet. “Shall I remove my shoes in order to walk more gently upon holy ground?”
“Oh!” She laughed. “I don’t know why I always take them off. I guess I just like the way the earth feels. You can leave yours on.”
But he’d already bent to remove them, shedding his socks as well. At the sight of his naked white toes, Esther felt a surge of orange hunger race through her body. She stared at his feet for an instant, taking in the high graceful arches and tapering shape, wondering with some dimly logical portion of her brain why bare feet should create such a reaction. Flustered, she let her eyes travel over his legs and chest, finally reaching his face, which was aglow with amusement. “Didn’t expect that, did you?”
“No.” She smiled softly. “You often surprise me.”
“Good.” He lifted that devilish eyebrow.
There was nothing much to say to that, so Esther turned and led the way over a narrow path through beds of apple-scented chamomile and heady sweet marjoram. “Herbs aren’t showy,” she said. Bending over, she plucked a spray of thyme, its stem dotted with tiny pale flowers, and handed it to him. “But they have their rewards. Smell.”
He obligingly held the spray to his nose. “Mmm—spaghetti.”
She rolled her eyes. “How romantic of you.” But she laughed and led him farther down the paths that circled the dense stands of herbs.
“This,” she said, stopping before a round bed filled with small, dense shrubs of silvery green, “is my pride and joy.”
Alexander paused, still twirling the thyme between his fingers. “And what is it?”
Esther bent in the gathering twilight, feeling a magical mood overtake her. Surrounded with gray light and the mingled perfumes of her herbs, she felt suddenly a little tipsy in spite of the fact that she’d only drunk a single glass of wine.
Kneeling in the cool earth by the plants, she reached out and gently bruised a stalk of lavender between her palms, covering her hands with the precious aromatic oil. She stood up again.
With a slow smile at Alexander, she rubbed her open palms over her neck and chest. “Lavender,” she said quietly. She tilted her head, and feeling dizzy at her boldness, added huskily, “Smell.”
His eyes darkened and he stepped forward, one hand settling around her waist in a light touch. Esther felt her breath quicken as he bent his curly head over her shoulder. His nose touched her skin just below her ear. “Mmm,” he rumbled. “It smells of night.”
She felt his beard move over the curve of her shoulder, and his lips touched her neck lightly. Esther sucked in a breath, feeling a tingle travel through her breasts and belly and loins. She reached up to grasp his arm as he continued his exploration, his mouth traveling downward along her neck to land on her collarbone. “It smells like stars,” he whispered, and moved against her, his body lean and hard against her softer curves.
Esther felt suspended in time as the gray light of evening deepened. A hush settled over the garden. She was aware only of Alexander’s teasing lips and the gentle scratch of his beard along her flesh. She felt deliciously aroused and yet perfectly safe.
But then he opened his mouth and settled his hot tongue in the hollow of her throat. At the same instant, his bared foot brushed over hers. She gripped his muscled arm fiercely.
The kiss the night before had been one of gentle exploration, a kiss of lips and introduction. This was nothing like that. Alexander pulled her roughly against him, pressing their bodies hard together as his mouth found hers, taking it with fervor. His tongue sizzled along the edges of her mouth, teasing and flicking to gain entrance to the heated cavern of her mouth. With a small, helpless moan, Esther opened to him, her hips going weak as he slanted his mouth over hers.
And yet for all the passion of this kiss, his skill was no less exacting now than it had been the night before. He suckled her lips and teased the tip of her tongue with the tip of his before plunging. Then he retreated and began again. His hands traveled over her back, skimming the upper rise of her hips, then explored her sides, up to her shoulders.
Esther lost herself in the glory of him, in the riotous feel of his curls clinging to her fingers, in the hard wall of his chest against the aching rise of her breasts, in the heat emanating from his body as he pressed into her urgently. He tasted of chocolate and wine and strawberries. She moved against him in unconscious invitation.
When his hands began to explore the outer swell of her breasts, Esther came with a sudden crash to her senses. They were in her garden, she thought with embarrassment, and broke away from him urgently.
For an instant, they stared at each other in stunned silence. His hair was mussed by her fingers and his changeable eyes were a dark, vivid turquoise. Her lips felt bruised, her knees shaky, and her body burned with his imprint. Shocked at the invitation she had issued—especially in light of the fact that she took great pains to avoid giving the wrong impression to men—she turned away, flushing painfully, and crossed her arms over her chest protectively. “I don’t know what got into me,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
Alexander growled in frustration and touched her shoulder. “Look at me.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, keeping her head bent, remembering the wanton way she had moved against him, the provocative way she had rubbed lavender oil over her neck and chest. “I can’t,” she whispered.
He put his palms on her shoulders. “Esther.”
When she still would not turn, he let go of her. “All right. When you’re ready, we’ll talk.”
She knew her manners were horrible, that she ought to turn and tell hint she had enjoyed his company, but when she’d been ready to tear her clothes off for him and make love amid the herbs, polite pleasantries seemed a bit absurd. She kept her face resolutely turned away, imagining over and over her hands reaching up to cover her flesh with lavender oil, then cocking her head...
From the deep closet of her mind where the memories of her failed marriage were stored, she heard another voice, annoyed and tired: Damn, Esther, all you ever want to do is jump into the sack.
As she listened to the whispering sounds of Alexander retreating through the garden, she ached at that old voice and the shame it made her feel. Intellectually she knew John had been lashing out at her to cover the guilt he felt over his inability to remain faithful to her. Emotionally—well, emotions were always harder.
Alexander’s voice reached her over the grass. “Good night, Esther.”
She couldn’t let him leave on this note, she thought wildly. Abruptly she turned. “Alexander,” she said on a note of entreaty.
He waited.
But she had no idea of what she wanted to say. “I’ll see you on Tuesday,” she said.
“Tuesday it is,” he replied.
Esther watched him go with a sinking feeling. This had all been a mistake, she thought. A great big mistake.
Chapter Five
Alexander bolted awake in the dead still of the middle of the night. Next to him, Piwacket glared at having been disturbed, but settled back down as Alexander got up.
He’d been dreaming of Esther. Not in any of the typically male ways his mind ordinarily conjured up in these circumstances. Instead, he’d dreamed of her stan
ding on a rocky cliff overlooking the sea off the coast of England, her arms stretched out in jubilant celebration, her pale red hair tossing on a wild sea wind. It was night in his dream. A full moon gave her bare white shoulders a pearlescent wash and the wind pressed her dress against her lush, round figure.
Staring out the window of his bedroom to the sleeping landscape, he had to smile at his imagination. Almost equal measures of Maxfield Parrish and Guinevere—a vision of Esther brimming with power and holy strength.
He frowned. Not Guinevere, he decided—or a Maxfield Parrish painting, for that matter. Both were too wispy, too ethereal, too vague to be the robustly drawn Esther.
Again the dream flashed in his mind—the tossing sea and her lush figure, the bright moon glowing in the sky as if to illuminate the source of all womanly power…
He remembered her kiss in the garden, the flash of sensual heat in her eyes as she lazily opened her palms to spread lavender oil over her flesh, then casually, teasingly, offered the long white neck to him. He’d gone to her easily, his senses hungry for the taste and feel of her.
But the passion that had exploded within him at the taste of that smooth skin had stunned him. And when his tongue had found the hollow of her throat, he’d seen her nipples bud into taut, eager points below her dress, evidence of her own desire.
He’d been so instantly, vigorously aroused that he had worried he would frighten her away. Instead, she’d received him as naturally as if he were the rain and she a thirsty stand of lavender.
Even now, hours later, the memory of her luxuriant form cushioned against the hard angles of his own was enough to arouse him virulently.
Fleeting, lusty liaisons had never been his style. Like all men, he’d certainly experienced his share of wild hungers, but he’d found his mind, as well as his body, had to be engaged. Susan had been his match intellectually as well as physically and he had supposed that he was lucky to have found it once in his lifetime.
Yet in less than a month’s time, Esther had completely captivated him. He wanted her with a force that put any previous acquaintance with the word to shame—wanted her in his bed for weeks of nights spent tumbling and tangled, days spent resting for the night to follow. An aura of erotic promise surrounded her as completely and naturally as her red hair and smooth pale skin.
A Minute to Smile Page 6
