Love's Own Reward

by Dana Ransom

  Once he’d cleaned his plate in brooding silence, he glanced up, then stared in alarm.

  “Charley? Hey, are you all right?”

  There was no point in lying. She could feel the tension gathering between her brows in deep furrows. Her jaw was tight with it, her eyes pinched with it. She hurt. There was no pretending. “I’d like to go home, Jess,” she said in a small voice.

  “Do you have those pills with you? Charley?”

  She made a face but produced them from her purse. He regarded the label. “Two, it says.” He twisted off the top.

  “One.”

  “Two!” He shook them out and leaned across the table. “Open.” She received them reluctantly, then he sat back with a satisfied smile while she washed them down with water.

  “I don’t know what you’re looking so smug for. You’ll probably have to drag me out of the car and put me to bed.”

  “No problem.”

  Then he smiled, a wide, suggestive smile that made her throat feel as though the pills had stuck there and suddenly grown four sizes bigger. “Let’s go, then, before I turn into spaghetti.”

  When they wound their way through the aisle of booths, she heard the whispers. She pretended not to, but she did.

  Is that her?

  I saw her picture in the paper.

  All that money just for saving a kid she didn’t even know.

  She walked faster.

  Charley could feel the medication working on the drive back to her apartment. First there was a blissful relief from the gnawing pain. Then that numbing sensation continued to spread, seeping along her limbs in a trail of useless relaxation until it reached her mind. Thoughts slowed and grew dreamy. She rolled her head on the back of the seat and looked at Jess. He looked dreamy, too. She was smiling rather foolishly when he turned into her complex and came to an abrupt halt.

  “Charlene, you have company.”

  In response to his curt statement, she turned from her study of his profile to follow his displeased stare. And she gasped in dismay.

  “Oh no.”

  News vans blocked her building entrance. A group of bored reporters milled restlessly upon the soggy grass. Waiting for her.

  “They haven’t seen us yet. You want me to turn around?”

  She nodded jerkily.

  When they were back on the main road, he cast a quick look at her. She was slumped in the seat, her eyes closed, her lips thin with distress. “Where to?”

  “I don’t know,” she said miserably. “A hotel, I guess. I need someplace quiet so I can pull all this together.”

  “I have just the place.”

  It took about fifteen minutes to reach the quiet suburb where yards sprawled beneath the spread of giant still-bare maples. She was fuzzily aware of a bungalow-style house with a big open front porch and a mailbox that was overflowing. As Jess guided her inside, more disjointed impressions. Oak trim, wood floors, bright yellow kitchen with checkerboard linoleum. All that was missing were Ward and June Cleaver, she decided tipsily.

  “You can sack out in the spare room. The sheets are clean. Bathroom’s right there. You need something, you just holler.”

  “Who lives here?” she asked groggily.

  “I do.”

  Charley stumbled. A house. That meant family. A wife and kids. Did he have them tucked away someplace in that sea of linoleum and old wood? She didn’t want to think so and blurted out, “Are you married?”

  That seemed to take him aback, then he shook his head. “Not anymore. Here you go.”

  He stripped the covers off a terribly inviting bed, and she went down into its wonderfully soft embrace without a whimper. She felt his hands on her ankles as he lifted her feet, shucked off her shoes, and swung her legs onto the mattress. “Sleep tight.”

  “Thank you, Jess,” she mumbled into the pillow. “You’re a nice man.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  She felt, more than heard, him leave the room. She wiggled slightly, making a comfortable hollow, then sighed. Heaven. From the other room she heard the sound of another voice. A female voice. She frowned and tried to gather her sensibilities.

  “Hi, Jess. It’s me. Aren’t you ever at home? I’ll be in town for a couple days. Give me a call.” Then that same throaty voice listed off a series of numbers, and Charley realized he must be listening to his messages.

  “J.T., it’s George. Got tickets for the Pistons. Call if you’re interested.” A beep, then another sultry message.

  “Jessie, hi. Lose my number? I miss you. You left your jacket here the other night. Come and get it.”

  “It’s Joanne. How are you? Haven’t seen you around. Still make the best lasagna in town? You know me, always hungry for more. Call when you have an appetite.”

  “Jess, pick up.” Silence, then the gruff male tones continued. “Just checking to see how the piece is coming. Have you managed to—” The message stopped. Then a heavy, engulfing silence she couldn’t pull out of.

  I miss you.

  Call when you have an appetite.

  Charley yawned and muttered a few choice expletives. “Call me,” she mimicked in the same husky timbre, then gave an indelicate snort. With her eyes closed and her conscious drifting, pictures formed in that cottony void of thought. Images of herself draped in diamonds and sequins with a tuxedoed Jess McMasters on her arm. They were getting out of a gray stretch limo in front of a huge pillared mansion. She was tipping the driver with a fifty-dollar bill.

  Then there were women there, gorgeously garbed, tugging at Jess’s arms.

  Come and get it.

  Call when you have an appetite.

  Jess McMasters, maybe you’re not such a nice guy after all.

  A SCREAM. CHARLEY could hear it clearly across the distance that separated them. The woman’s scream as her mouth twisted with horror and that stare reached for her in a desperate signal.

  Charley bolted upright. Springs creaked softly beneath her, and then there was just the sound of her own ragged breathing. Her panicked gaze swept the room. It was dark and the shadows loomed deep and unfamiliar. Where was she?

  She couldn’t lie back down. The terror was there in those damp, almost knotted sheets, waiting for her to close her eyes again. So she wouldn’t. It would be too much, twice in one night. But then she didn’t have to close her eyes to see the face, to hear the silent scream.

  Charley placed her bare feet on the floorboards. They were cold, but the shock was what she needed to clear some of the wool from her mind. Breathing in quick, jerky gasps, she came up off the bed to totter dangerously, then attempted a few awkward steps. When she was sure she wouldn’t fall, she moved out into the hall and toward the faint light spilling in from the street. Her toe caught the edge of the sofa, and that sharp jolt of pain was all it took to start the flood of tears she’d dammed up since the day of the accident. She stood in the middle of the strange living room on one foot, dampness coursing down her cheeks, soundless sobs contracting her chest in a hard rhythm. She cried for them all: for the woman and her husband, for the little boy who was suddenly all alone, for herself because she’d never had the time before. For the pain and the fear and the nightmare that wouldn’t go away. For the confusion that wouldn’t leave her mind and the changes that were tearing her life apart. There seemed no end to those tears, to her grief until . . .

  “It’s all right.”

  He’d come up as quietly as a shifting shadow. Without thinking or hesitation, Charley stepped into his embrace. How well we fit, was her first coherent notion, her head in the curve of his shoulder, her hips against the long, hard line of his straddled thighs. He held her without offering comment or compassion because she didn’t need them. She needed this, the wordless comfort of his strength, the security of his arms around her, and
the sturdiness of his chest as a resting place. And for a fleeting second it seemed so very familiar. Then his hand rose to lightly touch her hair, fingers moving slowly to ply its silken texture between them. And the mood altered, subtly, disturbingly. Charley leaned away but not out of the circle of his grasp.

  “I’m sorry,” she muttered, unable to look up at him. Her apology was as rambling as her flustered thoughts. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I didn’t know where I was and I stubbed my toes and I had this awful dream. I’m sorry to be such a b-baby.”

  His palm curved to the shape of her jaw, tipping her head up even as his thumb drew down on her chin, bringing a part to her lips. His voice was unnaturally husky.

  “Baby, you’re the bravest woman I know.”

  And he was kissing her.

  Charley wasn’t prepared for it. Her gasp was soft and wondering as his mouth sought hers. From the way he jerked, he was just as surprised by the sudden sweet contact. But he was quicker to recover. The kiss grew in intensity from gentle seeking to urgent taking, and Charley was helpless to do more than ride out the wild surge of sensation. She was limp and breathless by the time he finished.

  “Jess . . .”

  “Don’t say anything,” he rumbled gruffly as he brought her back into the safety of his embrace. She could feel his racing heartbeats and quick, uneven gulps for air and sanity. And for some reason his loss of composure calmed her.

  What was he thinking? Jess squeezed his eyes tightly shut and tried to ignore the soft tickle of her hair beneath his chin. How had things gotten so carried away? He’d brought her here to his home to provide her with a harbor in her sea of stormy troubles, to coax her into lowering her guard, not to seduce her or lose himself in the process. Her tears undid the best of intentions. The feel of her against him broke the fetters of control. It was crazy. His heart was chugging away like an engine gathering steam. His kiss had rocked the foundations of passion. Yet she stayed in his arms, trusting him when he couldn’t even trust himself.

  “You’d better get back to bed,” he said hoarsely. It was a warning. He wasn’t sure how much more of her innocent temptation he could stand. He wasn’t expecting her reply.

  “No.” Fright trembled in that single word, and his mood jerked in an instant from desire to tender reassurance. She took a shaky breath, fighting for courage. “I think I’ll sit up for a while.” Until her demons left her.

  “I’ll sit with you.”

  “You don’t . . .”

  But he was already leading her to a big fabric-covered recliner. He surprised her by sinking onto its wide seat without releasing her. As he kicked up the footrest and at the same time leaned back, she found herself nestled quite snugly into his side. And after experiencing the sturdy pillow of his chest, she had no inclination to move or seek a softer comfort. It was a long while before she could sleep again, however. Not because of the pain in her hands, not because of the dream. But because of his kiss.

  Should she be lying with him like this after experiencing what she had in his arms? What had that been, exactly? Nothing short of cataclysmic, she concluded with a sigh. He’d sucked raw sensation right up from her soul. Oh, it wasn’t as if she’d never been kissed, but compared to the scorching sensuality of Jess, kissing Alan had all the excitement of photocopying research findings—all rote movements expended toward a predictable end. She wasn’t being fair to Alan, she knew. He was nothing like Jess. He was serious, dedicated, detached from the distractions of passion. Jess McMasters was passion. Everything about him seethed with it, from his wide, lazy smile to the glittery brilliance of his stare. It simmered beneath the smooth surface of his words and shook through the restrained forays of his touch. He wasn’t satisfied trying to improve life from the other end of a microscope; he wanted to live it. That made Jess McMasters uniquely appealing to her reserved position on the sidelines of living. And dangerous. Because he hadn’t wanted to stop with just the kiss.

  And neither had she.

  Everything was so steady in her relationship with Alan. They knew what to expect from each other, their roles well defined and sensible. She knew on any given day, at any particular time, exactly what he’d be doing or thinking. No surprises. She’d liked that about him. She could count on him implicitly, and for one raised in a regimented world, that was very important to her. He might not have the fire of a Jess McMasters, but neither did he upset her world with these rifts of panicky emotion. He had never in the two years of their acquaintance demanded what Jess had in that searing kiss—that she take what he gave and return it in kind. A frightening concept. A temptation she didn’t dare explore. Because though Alan might not ignite the same spark of response, she owed him her faithfulness. And that meant denying the hornet nest of feelings Jess stirred up inside her.

  He hadn’t meant anything by it, she told herself reasonably. He was used to inspiring women to a frenzy of longing, with his charismatic looks, with his casual confidence, with his smoldering sexuality. It was part of his nature but not necessarily part of his intent. His kiss said he wanted her at that moment, but that didn’t mean he would feel the same way next week, the next day, or even the next hour. He was a man of the impulsive moment, and she couldn’t be like that. She needed the stability of long-range plans. She evaluated risks until they became certainties. And Jess was a risk she couldn’t take because there was nothing certain about him. She wasn’t like those throaty-sounding sirens on the phone, content to wait for his mood to shift in their favor. She demanded an amount of commitment, and she sensed he wouldn’t give it. He wasn’t a staid, dependable Alan Peters. He’d swept into her life on an unexpected wind and would blow back out just as freely. And she couldn’t afford to let him carry her heart away with him. He was dangerous. Because when he’d kissed her, she’d been willing to throw all logic aside. She’d been willing to grab at the risk just to ride that wild wind. For the night. Because she’d wanted to make love with Jess despite all that reason told her.

  What if she used the money to become the kind of woman who could hold him? It was a brief, whispering thought just on the edge of falling into slumber. What would it take to have Jess McMasters? An eclectic loft and the freedom to explore his creativity? A facade of sophistication only money could buy? Surely it wasn’t a dowdy researcher in a rumpled lab coat whose idea of culture grew in a dish. She had the resources. What she lacked was the experience. What would it cost to make a man like Jess love her?

  Five

  SOMETHING WAS burning.

  The hot, unpleasant scent jerked Jess from a heavy sleep. He woke to confusion. There was an ache low in his back, and his neck was cramped to one side. How had he come to nod off in his chair? He’d wakened at the computer keyboard on more than one occasion, but he wasn’t normally the recliner type. It was reserved for the evening news, nothing more. He read his morning paper on his tablet in the bathroom while shaving or at the table over his first of countless cups of coffee. He wasn’t sedentary enough to enjoy lingering in the cushy chair. Sue had bought it for him several Christmases ago. Just another sign of how little she’d understood him.

  His nose wrinkled. Toast. That’s what was burning. Then he remembered the warm little figure tucked into his side all night and he smiled. Should he go and see what kind of mess she’d made of his kitchen, or first, call the fire department? He gave a long, lingering stretch and snapped the footrest down. Still smiling, he ambled toward the smell of smoke.

  “Mess” was a mild description. She was like a four-year-old in the kitchen. A very sexy-looking four-year-old. Opened cartons of milk and juice tottered precariously on the edge of the counter. One of his gourmet whisks leaked egg yolks all over the top of his stove, where she’d laid out an odd collection of pots and pans. What was she planning to use the double boiler for? Butter sizzled and smoked in one of his best coated sauté skillets awaiting the potatoes she’d managed to whittle
down into skinny parings. The bread wrapper was dangerously close to melting against the hot edge of the pan.

  “ ’Morning,” he called out cheerily as he scooted the bread to one side.

  “Oh!” Charley jumped, her fingers opening reflexively. The egg she’d been holding burst on his linoleum. She stared down at the unintentional scramble in dismay, then slowly lifted her anguished gaze to his. Then she scowled. “What are you laughing at? I was trying to make you breakfast.”

  Still chuckling, he advanced into the disaster zone, turning off the burner, popping up the blackened toast, and turning off the coffee maker where a steady stream of clear water ran through an empty filter. Then he turned to her where she stood, a trembling wreck in the middle of the culinary carnage. She looked crestfallen. Everything inside him turned to mush.

  “Oh, baby, I wasn’t laughing at you,” he said softly, although the humor quirking his mouth belied his words. “It’s been a long time since anyone’s wanted to make me breakfast. It’s . . . nice. Now, get out my kitchen and let me finish up before you burn the place down.” He took the sting out of his words by leaning forward to glance a kiss off her brow. Then he gave her a no-nonsense push out.

  “If you expect breakfast from me, in the future you’ll have those neat little microwavable deals in the freezer,” she told him haughtily as she picked her way around the egg remains.

  Grinning, Jess said, “I’ll pick some up at the store.”

  Charley stopped dead, her face fusing a becoming crimson. She was talking about starting the day with him as if it would become a habit. And he’d accepted without pause. Feeling as if she’d just taken a handful of her painkillers, she moved numbly to drop into one of his Windsor dining room chairs.

  She watched him work the kitchen with a practiced efficiency. He cleaned up her clutter and started over with clean countertops and a properly filled coffee filter. Part of her was admiring the view. The other was spinning frantically.