"Eat your breakfast, Mr. Wolfe. Your coffee's getting cold, and the coffee cake is best eaten piping hot."
"They can wait. Right now I think I should have a look at your back."
"No," she protested, backing up even farther. "I'll be all right."
"You don't want the briers to get infected, do you? Of all people, you should know that."
"I know, but I—"
Taylor ignored her protests and turned on his heel to limp into the bathroom without the use of his cane. He came back with a pair of tweezers.
"Lie down on the bed," he instructed, motioning toward the rumpled burgundy comforter.
She stared at it, her feet rooted to the floor. Lie on his bed? It seemed like such an alien place now that he had branded it with the shape of his body and the scent of his skin and hair. The thought of reclining in his nest sent all kinds of thrills shooting through her—both good and bad.
"Rose, lie down, or I won't be able to help you."
She glanced at his face and then back toward the bed. What he said was true. She needed help, and he was the only person around who could relieve her suffering. Rose took a nervous step toward the bed and then paused.
"The briers are all over my back, Mr. Wolfe." She felt herself blush fiercely. "And... well... lower."
"You mean on your ass?" he asked, a slow grin lifting the left corner of his mouth.
"Yes." She stared at the far wall, trying to maintain some decorum in the face of enduring a most humiliating experience. "On my bottom."
"I'll tell you what, Rose. We'll unbutton your dress at the back there and do the top part, and then work on your, er... bottom. That way you won't be completely naked at any one time."
She was relieved at his thoughtfulness.
"That sounds like a good plan," she replied stiffly, putting a knee on his mattress.
"Go ahead and lie down," he urged, his voice less harsh than usual. "I don't bite, you know. I’m not an animal."
But he did fondle. She remembered the way he had touched her breasts in the study and made than ache and tingle. She remembered the way his kiss had melted her from the inside out. Rose lay on the bed and vowed she would keep this session as medicinal as possible. Being in his bedroom and lying on his bed was a dangerous situation for someone who had no experience with men.
As the side of her face sank into the down comforter, she was enveloped in his scent, a tangy fragrance with a hint of saltiness, as if he had been out in the wind and had captured it in his hair. Rose closed her eyes and scrunched the comforter with her fists, blotting out the image of Taylor's eyes and the way they had melted to a deep brown when he had held her in his arms the night before. She felt his fingers unbuttoning her dress. He didn't fumble once with the tiny buttons. Under ordinary circumstances, and when in full command of his body, Taylor probably never fumbled or stumbled with anything. She was seeing him at his worst in his wounded, semi-blinded state and wondered what he had been like before his accident.
Cool air swept over her burning back as he gently pulled away each side of her bodice. Rose breathed in and held herself stiff as he unfastened her bra and laid aside the straps.
Taylor winced when he saw her back. Her shoulders were scratched and dotted with tiny brown briers, as were her shoulder blades and the muscles along her spine. Even the backs of her arms were sprinkled with stickers. Removing the briers might take quite a while. Fortunately he was accustomed to working for hours on his models, which required intense concentration and a steady hand.
He looked down at her back, imagining how it must appear without the festering briers. Her skin was like flawless porcelain edged in rose—the kind of skin possessed by a mere handful of women, the kind of milk and honey skin that cried out to be caressed and protected from harsh elements. He paused, his hand inches from her shoulder, as he realized that he was a harsh element, a broken-down man with years of experience that had roughened his edges and jaded his once unflappable optimism. To touch such perfection would be like cutting chiffon cake with a rusty rasp. He had no business stroking her fair, lush skin.
Gingerly, he moved aside the long strands of her dark red hair, marveling at its silkiness. Most women he knew treated their hair with permanent waves, or sprays and gels that stiffened it and made it feel crispy. And then there were women who wore their hair nearly as short as his, a style that robbed a woman of her femininity, as far as he was concerned. The texture of Rose's hair was unlike any he had ever felt. It seemed virginal, if the word could be applied to hair.
Taylor closed his eyes. He could smell the soft scent of lavender wafting up from her. He swallowed back a strong physical urge to run his fingers through the ripples of her shining tresses and let the strands titillate the sensitive flesh between his fingers. He could almost imagine the way her hair would hang around him in a fragrant russet cloud should she ever lean over him in bed, her graceful white hands planted on his chest. Much to his annoyance, he felt himself swell with desire for her, only this time the desire was sharp and insistent, because she was in his bed already. All he would have to do was straddle her, trap her delicate wrists beneath his palms and take her from behind. That way he wouldn't even hurt her scratched skin. He could have her right now if he wanted to take her by force.
Taylor breathed in sharply and turned away from the bed, wondering what had come over him. He had never taken a woman against her will, had never forced himself on anyone. Yet he wanted Rose so acutely that he felt dangerously desperate, his hunger heightened by the fact that he hadn't had a woman for months and the knowledge that his thirst for this woman was not to be slaked. The odds that Rose might someday hunger for his touch were minimal, if not downright nonexistent.
He snatched the tweezers from the nightstand and sat down beside her, willing himself to inspect her back as a doctor might inspect a broken toe, making himself view her back as a separate entity and not part of a glorious whole. God help him in the second phase of this operation, when he had to look at her lushly rounded bottom. If he could control himself then, he would be a candidate for sainthood.
"Mr. Wolfe?" Rose asked, her words muffled by the comforter.
Her voice startled him, and he realized he must have been gawking at her longer than he should have.
"Okay, I'm ready," he replied, his voice gruff. "Are you?"
"Yes."
He raised the tweezers while he searched for a good place to start. He decided to work from top down, doing the backs of her arms first. Gently he pressed her flesh with his left thumb and forefinger, forcing the brier to pop to the surface. Then, one by one, he pulled out each venomous brown dagger.
Rose never made a sound, even though he was certain he caused her pain when he squeezed out the more deeply embedded stickers. After a while he felt her relax on the bed, which made her muscles slacken so that his job was a bit easier. She never said a word the entire time he worked on her back, for which he was grateful. He wasn't the type that could concentrate and talk at the same time. Pointless chatter annoyed him, as well.
After a quarter of an hour he sat back and brushed the hair off his forehead with the back of his wrist. "So far so good, Brier Rose," he said.
"Are you done?" she asked, twisting on the comforter.
He nearly caught a glimpse of her naked breast. Knowing it would be pure torture if he saw any more of her torso, he averted his gaze.
"Yes—on the top, that is. Just as a precaution, though, I think I should apply some kind of antibiotic."
"My comfrey salve would do well in this case."
"What in the heck is that?"
"Comfrey is a plant that fights infection. I mix powdered comfrey with cocoa butter and beeswax to make the salve."
"I suppose it would be better than nothing. Do you have some?"
"Yes." She rose on one elbow, holding her loose garments to her breasts this time. "In the bathroom that's in my bedroom."
"Stay right there. I'll get it." He traded his twe
ezers for the cane, which was propped against the nightstand, and hobbled to the door. Then he turned. "Where is your room, anyway?"
She gave him a funny look, as if she didn't believe him, and then pointed to the left. "Down at the end of the hall, near the back stair."
"And what does this salve look like?"
"It's in a green glass jar marked Comfrey. It should be in the cabinet above the sink."
"I'll be right back. Just stay where you are."
He walked down the hallway, wondering why he was so eager to help her. If he were honest about it, he would have to admit that he liked the idea of Rose Quennel lying in his bed and wanted to keep her there as long as possible.
Taylor opened the last door on the left and peered inside the room. This chamber had to belong to Rose. The feminine decor of white lace curtains and wine-colored floral-print fabric fit Rose's personality, as did the neat stacks of books on her dresser and writing table, and the bouquet of bird feathers she had arranged in a small crystal vase. A collection of impressionist prints graced her walls, most of them by Mary Cassatt, whose subjects were women and children. His gaze lingered on a painting of a woman bathing a child, and he felt a twisting jab in his chest.
Somewhere there was a woman who had borne a child in shame. He could have done something about it. But as a sixteen-year-old, he had allowed his father to override his sense of honor. Taylor had been forbidden to step forward with the truth, for the truth involved speaking out about the no-good son of a prominent businessman with whom Taylor's father had been arranging a construction deal. The deal went through, establishing Wolfe Construction as the premier firm in San Francisco. The young woman's accusation of rape, on the other hand, was squelched, but not before her reputation and life were ruined.
Taylor felt like hell for years afterward and never forgave his father for demanding such a costly silence from him. But more importantly, he never forgave himself for keeping quiet. After graduating from high school, he left home and never saw or spoke to his father again. He never accepted a penny of the Wolfe fortune for college or anything else, even though his father constantly wrote checks and bought him cars, as if trying to make up for the past. The checks were returned uncashed, the vehicles never accepted. And only when his father had died four years ago had Taylor returned home to visit his mother.
He still burned with anger and shame, even now, after all these years. He turned sharply away from the painting.
Taylor walked past Rose's four-poster bed, which looked plump and fresh, the lacy shams frothy white. He could imagine that her bed would smell pleasantly of lavender and that the linen would be spotlessly clean—a virginal bed, just like her.
Taylor smiled sadly at his private joke and hobbled into the bathroom. As far as he was concerned, her bed was going to remain virginal and his celibate.
He found the comfrey salve and—thinking of Rose's modesty—a large white towel with which to drape her, and then returned to his bedroom.
When Taylor walked through the doorway, he saw Rose flop back down on her stomach to shield her body from sight.
"Found it," he remarked, walking forward. "Shall I put some on you?"
"Please. And gently."
"Have I been hurting you?" he asked, hoping he hadn't caused her too much discomfort.
"No. Actually, you have a light touch, Mr. Wolfe."
Her words pleased him. At least he had done something right in her eyes. He sank down beside her, removed the lid from the jar, and set it on the nightstand.
With feather-light strokes, he applied the salve to her back and arms, trying not to imagine what it would be like to caress her for reasons of pleasure, not pain. Even so, the touch of his hands must have had a soothing effect on her, for at one point she let out a long sigh. The sound shot right to his loins. He shifted.
"Do you want me to fasten your bra and dress?" he asked, his voice hoarse. "I brought a towel in case you don't want to get the salve on your clothes."
"The towel would be fine. Thanks."
He lightly draped the terry cloth over her back and then started to unbutton her dress all the way to the hem. With each button, his breathing grew more uneven and his arousal more intense. Ah, but this was exquisite torture. She wore no slip beneath the dress, only pure-white panties.
"Your panties," he began, clearing his throat. "I'll have to take than down just a bit."
She was as stiff as a board.
"Do what you have to, Mr. Wolfe," came her muffled reply.
He groaned silently. If she only knew what his body was screaming for him to do, she wouldn't grant him carte blanche like that. Taylor reached for her underwear and slid it off her slender hips. The round flesh of her small, white, incredibly virginal bottom popped into view. Taylor sucked in a breath and held it. How would he live through this torture without going crazy?
She stirred. "There are quite a few briers, aren't there?" she asked.
"Yes."
"I couldn't bear to sit down this morning."
Taylor clenched his teeth. He could hardly sit down now. His jeans were uncomfortably tight. He reached for the tweezers, figuring the best thing he could do to keep his mind off visions of lovemaking with Rose was to start plucking briers and try to make small talk, as much as he hated it.
"I noticed the clothes you had on yesterday," he ventured. "Have you been painting the house?"
"No." She propped her chin on her balled fists. "I've been working on a piece of fabric for a client."
"A client?" He pulled out a brier, trying to fill his mind with their idle conversation instead of the sight of the dimple in her right buttock. Her rump was so slender and delicate, he had a nearly overwhelming urge to nip it with his teeth. He forced himself to look only at the very tip of the tweezers. "Do you run some kind of business here at Brierwood?"
"Yes. I'm a fabric designer."
"What exactly is a fabric designer?"
"Well, in my case, I paint designs on cloth. Some designers use computers to create patterns, which are produced by machines, much like a printing press. But my work is all done directly on the fabric, freehand."
Freehand? He could imagine his hands freely cupping the pale moons before him and crushing her against his aching body. What a feeling that would be! And how good it would feel to release himself in her tight depths.
Taylor moistened his lips. "Where.. .um...do you work?"
"I have a studio on the third floor. Would you like to see it sometime?"
"Yeah." He would like to see anything, anywhere, if he could just survive this brief moment in time with his self-respect intact. Carefully he pulled more briers, squeezing her skin as gently as possible. "Do you... do you have many clients?''
"Enough to keep me busy. Right now I'm trying to finish something by the end of the week. Then I'm going to take a small vacation."
"That sounds good. Where?"
"I don't know. Someday, when I have enough money, I'd like to go to Milan to research textiles in the museums there."
"Ah." Four more little hummers and he would be done. Taylor caught his lower lip between his teeth and bent to his task, knowing a greater test lay beyond—that of rubbing comfrey salve on the expanses he longed to caress with more than just the tips of his fingers.
When the last brier was plucked out, he leaned forward, dropped the tweezers on the nightstand and picked up the salve.
"Almost done, Rose," he said in encouragement, more to himself than to her.
"It feels much better already, Mr. Wolfe."
"You should have asked me to help you yesterday." He dipped his fingers in the creamy yellow salve.
"I was too embarrassed."
"Has it been that bad the past few minutes?"
"No." She turned her head enough to look over her shoulder at him. Her blue eyes were smoky with an emotion he didn't recognize. All he knew was that he'd never seen anyone look so alluring and so innocent at the same time. "I have to admit that I didn't ex
pect you to be such a gentleman."
"Gentleman?" He forced a chuckle and spread the salve on her rump, stroking her with just one hand, which made it less of a temptation to run his palms all the way up the sides of her body and make her his prisoner.
The truth was, he hadn't expected her to be such a lady, either. Her behavior baffled him. If she had wanted to engage him in a compromising situation, this would have been the time to do it, and yet she had made no move to seduce him. He had to admit that he was somewhat disappointed.
"You wouldn't say I was a gentleman if you knew what I was thinking."
"And what are you thinking, Mr. Wolfe?"
For an instant he thought of revealing his attraction to her, of leaning down and kissing her, but an instant later he thought better of it. He pulled back his hand.
"Things better left to the imagination." He rose and turned his back so she couldn't see the physical evidence of his reaction to her. "All done, Brier Rose."
"Thank you. Really. Thank you."
He hobbled over to his cold breakfast. Rose followed a moment later, wrapping the towel around her. He didn’t dare turn around to look at her.
"Let me make you another breakfast, Mr. Wolfe. It's the least I can do in return for your kindness."
"It’s all right." He lifted one of the covers and sniffed. He had choked down many a cold meal of crackers and beer aboard the Jamaican Lady. Lukewarm eggs and coffee cake seemed like four-star fare to him. "There's nothing wrong with the food."
He heard her walk toward the door and glanced at her over his shoulder. Her grace and bearing made her look like a queen, even when she wore a plain terry-cloth towel. Why had he ever accused her of being hysterical and melodramatic? The more he got to know her, the more he realized that "proud" and "noble" were far better descriptions of Rose Quennel. He was just about to ask her to share his breakfast when someone pounded on the door.
"Rose?" Bea called from the other side. "Are you in there?"
Taylor saw the color drain from Rose's face.
The Haunting of Brier Rose Page 10
