by Anne Stuart
"True enough." He was moving closer now, across the room, and in her bare feet and skimpy clothing she felt uncomfortably vulnerable. He stopped by the stove to refill his own coffee mug, and then bore down on her, slowly, menacingly, she thought, his tall, lean body a delicious threat to her suddenly wide eyes.
He was only inches away; she could feel the body heat emanating from all that formidably beautiful flesh, and she wondered if he could hear her heart hammering so loudly beneath the thin T-shirt. His arm reached out, past her waist, and she drew in her breath sharply as his skin grazed her bare flesh. Catching the refrigerator door handle, he pulled it toward him, pulling her unwillingly mesmerized body with it.
It took her a moment longer to come to her senses, and she ducked out of his way seconds before her body would have met his. "I use milk in my coffee," he said blandly, reaching in to the refrigerator without a backward glance. But Jessie knew that no benevolent fate would have kept him unaware of her obvious reaction to that slow, sinuous almost-embrace. And that small, satisfied smile on his face as he turned back to her only increased her murderous thoughts.
"You're a real turkey, you know," she said quietly, standing very still.
"And you're still ridiculously gullible for a woman your age. Why didn't you tell me, Jessie?" His voice was flat, matter-of-fact, so why did she think she heard a trace of vulnerability there? It had to be more wishful thinking.
"I didn't figure it was any of your business. And why should you have cared? I was just one in what I gather is an incredibly long line of one-night stands. You weren't thinking about the possible consequences when we went to bed together. I was just sparing you ever having to think about those consequences. What you didn't know didn't hurt you."
"Cut the crap, little mother," he snarled. "You were too self-centered to even think about my possible reactions; you weren't thinking about sparing me the consequences. I'm just amazed you didn't have a quick abortion and put the whole thing out of your mind. Peter wouldn't have minded."
Jessica smiled, a small, dangerous smile. "You've just proven my point, Springer. What it all boiled down to is that we don't really know each other. I had no idea what your reaction would be, for the simple reason that I had only met you twice before I found out I was pregnant, and both times we ended in bed together without much conversation. And if you think you know me, you wouldn't wonder why I didn't have an abortion and marry Peter Kinsey. But you don't know me, you don't know anything about me, and you stand there like some damn judge and jury, Cotton Mather to the life, and think you've got me all figured out." Her breath was coming more rapidly in her fury, and her untrammeled breasts were rising and falling beneath the thin cotton top. "Let me tell you, Springer MacDowell, that you don't know anything about me, you never have, and you never will." As her voice rose the sound of it penetrated Matthew's sleep, and he shifted in the basket, whimpering slightly. "Now see what you've done; you woke the baby," she said in a loud whisper, heading toward the basket.
Springer's hands reached out and caught her arms, turning her with a gentleness that nevertheless allowed no possibility for escape, and moved her back toward the kitchen door, out of range of the rush basket. She tried to jerk away, but his hands tightened warningly. "Just relax, little mother," he drawled. "You didn't wake him. He's dry, well fed, and he's been up since six. He's ready for a nap."
"I didn't say I woke him, I said you—"
"I know what you said. I also know more about you than you think." He waited for a moment, then slowly released her, his fingers loosening their iron grip on her arms. "I know that your parents were both alcoholics and they're dead. That you've got two sisters somewhere that you don't see unless they want something. I know that you've got the reputation of having slept your way to the vice-presidency of Kinsey Enterprises, and that the only man you've ever slept with is a lawyer named Philip Mercer. Apart from me, that is. I know you've been a good friend to my parents and a lousy friend to yourself." His hand caught one arm again, slid down the silken length of it to catch her wrist, turning it up in his hand to expose the fading tracery of scars. "And I know you've tried to kill yourself, at least once, and did a fairly good job of it."
She didn't pull away from him; she couldn't. "What did you do, hire a private detective?" she accused him in an anguished whisper.
He shook his head. "No, I just did what anyone would do when they needed some information. I asked my mother." His self-deprecating smile failed to penetrate her glazed anger.
"You've got some of the facts wrong," she said bitterly. "And you missed one early installment of my scintillating love life."
He shrugged. "I doubt it was important. It seems you've been lacking both quantity and quality. Maybe sometime you'll find someone, maybe you won't. That'll depend on you."
She stared up at him, her mind in turmoil. I did find someone, she wanted to scream. "I have no interest in finding a satisfactory love life, Springer," she said icily. "I just want you to leave me and my son alone."
"Don't you realize that..." His words trailed off as they both heard the loud slamming of the front screen door. Jessica knew who it was—only Marianne could slam the door with just that combination of belligerence and energy.
"Jessie, where are you?" she called out, her footsteps coming closer. The kitchen door swung open just as Springer was moving away, across the room. Jessica's wrist still tingled from his touch, and it was with a great effort that she greeted Marianne with a welcoming smile.
"There you are, Jessie. What in the world are you doing still undressed at this hour? Matthew give you a tough night?" Marianne didn't look as if she'd had the best night's sleep herself. Her freckled face was pale in the late-morning sunlight, and her thick chestnut hair was bundled behind her neck in an untidy bun. She had a distracted, exhausted expression to her usually warm eyes, and she didn't even notice the tall, motionless figure by the kitchen sink.
"Not really." Jessica made a deliberate gesture toward Springer. "I have a visitor."
Marianne turned, her eyes widening in shock, first at his presence with her scantily clad friend, and then at his face. And then her face wreathed in a broad smile. "You must be Peter Kinsey," she said brightly. "I'd recognize you anywhere. Matthew looks just like you."
Jessica turned her face against the wall and moaned loudly, her misery complete.
"Actually I'm Springer MacDowell," he said, moving from the sink and bestowing his most charming smile on a surprisingly responsive Marianne. "And yes, he does look like me, doesn't he? Jessie's at a loss to explain it."
"Shut up, Springer." She pushed herself away from the wall. "Give Marianne some coffee while I go upstairs and get dressed. And don't tell Springer all about my love life, Marianne. He won't be interested."
"What love life?" Marianne demanded, bewildered. "You've been Saint Jessica the Divine for as long as I've known you, complete with immaculate conception." She cast an appraising eye at Springer's rangy form. "Though I guess it wasn't so immaculate after all."
At Springer's unrestrained shout of laughter, Jessica contented herself with a resigned sigh. "Thanks, Marianne. Right on top of things, as always. I'll be back."
She was halfway out the door when she heard Marianne's bright voice. "So tell me, how did you and Jessica meet?" She would have given a great deal to hear Springer's answer. He had more than met his match in the determined Marianne, she thought with her first trace of amusement. Maybe she could drive him away.
But she wouldn't count on it. She knew in her heart that Springer MacDowell wasn't going anywhere until he was good and ready to go, and that didn't look to be in the near future. And she still couldn't be sure if she was angry or relieved at that thought. Maybe a little bit of both. And therein lay the danger.
Chapter Thirty
"You know, Jessie, I like him."
"Traitor," Jessica shot back, albeit with not a great deal of energy. It was hard to summon up the anger that had been dogging her. They w
ere sitting on the side porch facing the clear green-blue of the lake. Jessica was sitting on the steps, knees bent, with Matthew stretched out lengthwise on her thighs, smiling up at her happily. Eric and Shannon were down on the grass in front of them, arguing haphazardly without any interference from their mother, while Marianne drank her coffee, admired Springer's undeniably admirable physique, and tried to look cheerful.
"How long's he going to be here?" She nodded toward Springer's distant figure.
He was wandering down by the lake, poking around the sagging dock, nosing around the tiny semicircle of rocky sand that served as a swimming beach. He was still wearing that faded blue flannel shirt, although he had buttoned the buttons it still boasted and rolled up the tattered sleeves. He'd rolled up his pant legs, too, and for a moment Jessica allowed herself a brief erotic fantasy about those tanned, narrow ankles. She'd never noticed a man's ankles before, never thought of them as a particularly erogenous zone. She thought so now.
She turned to Marianne with a sigh. "I don't know. The most I can get out of him is that he'll be here a month or two. I can't imagine what sort of job would allow him to take summers off."
"You can't?" Marianne's look of determined cheerfulness was replaced with real amazement. "You mean to tell me you don't know what he does for a living?"
She looked up from her son's smiling face. "No, I don't. Do you?"
"Of course."
"How?"
Marianne shook her head. "I asked, dummy. You two must have had some torrid affair, not even taking time to find out what he did for a living."
"Well?"
"Well, what?" Marianne countered.
"Well, what does he do for a living?"
Marianne contemplated her for a moment. "I think I'll let him tell you."
"Marianne..." Jessica's voice held a warning, one Marianne blithely ignored.
"No, Jessica. You ask him; he'll tell you. I'll leave it at that."
"He's probably a member of the Mafia," she said grumpily, her tone of voice at variance with the smile on her face as she bent down toward her son.
"Ask him. We had a nice talk while you were getting dressed, and I promise you, he won't bite."
"He won't bite you, maybe. Me, I'm not so sure
about. How did he manage to win you over so quickly? I thought you were impervious to the male of the species."
"Maybe Cameron addled my brain," she said glumly. "I like him, Jessica. I really do. And if you gave him half a chance I think..." Her voice trailed off as she caught sight of Jessica's expression.
Her ice-blue eyes were trained on the figure down by the lake with absentminded concentration, and there was a curiously vulnerable look on her face, one that was embarrassingly easy for her friend to read.
"Oh," said Marianne, nonplussed.
"Oh, what?" Jessica tore her eyes away from Springer's lean form.
"I hadn't realized that you were in love with him."
It was close to the last straw. "Don't hand me that crap, Marianne. I'm not in love with anyone, and particularly not Springer MacDowell. If I were going to fall in love I'd pick someone far more... more..." Words failed her.
Marianne nodded. "You're in love with him, all right. You just don't even realize it yourself yet."
"Since when did you become the great expert on affairs of the heart? If I need Dear Abby, I'll write to her. You're right, Andrew must have addled your brains." Her nervous tapping of her feet communicated itself to Matthew, who screwed up his face with a look of intense displeasure.
"I suppose so. Speaking of addled brains, I suppose it would be ridiculous to ask a favor of you," Marianne said disconsolately, putting her empty coffee mug down on the gray-painted porch floorboards.
"Don't you be ridiculous," Jessica said warmly. "Just because your brain's melted doesn't mean I don't love you. Name it."
"I was going to ask you to watch the kids for a few hours, but I hadn't realized you had company."
"Oh, bless you, Marianne. At this point you could rent your kids to me. I need something to keep Springer at a distance. I'm not in the mood for a cross-examination of my history, which he seems determined to do. I was going to try to keep Matthew from taking a nap, but Eric and Shannon will do the trick perfectly. He can hardly ask me about my sex life with Eric listening."
"Is he going to?" Marianne asked, fascinated.
"He has already, and I didn't give him much of an answer. Nor do I intend to. I think he's here to make sure I'm a decent mother for his son."
"And if he decides you're not?" Marianne's broad, pretty face reflected her own tangled situation.
"I won't even consider the possibility." Jessica had to resist the urge to pull Matthew up into her arms. She gave her head a tiny shake. "So, speaking of addled brains, what are you planning to do this afternoon?"
"Go berrying."
"Oh, no."
"Oh, yes. He'll never notice. It was just bad luck that he came across us last year. I'm not going to give up the best raspberries in years because I'm afraid of Andrew Cameron."
"You don't think he'll be glad to have you plundering his bushes?"
"Not after last night. We had a parting of the ways."
"That was fast." Jessica couldn't control the look of disappointment that shadowed her face. "Don't you think you could have—"
"Do you want advice on your love life, Jessica?" Marianne countered in a dangerous voice. "I have all sorts of opinions on Springer and you."
"No, thank you," she said promptly, only partly subdued. "So if your ways are parted, how come you're going over there to steal his raspberries? Aren't you afraid he'll catch you?"
"I don't think he's going to be anywhere around. And if he does happen to see me, I expect he'll go out of his way to avoid me. Don't look for Freudian motives, Jessica. If I wanted to see him, I'd go over and see him. I wouldn't use raspberries for an excuse. I don't want to see him. I always knew getting involved with him would be a mistake, and I was proved right."
"All right, all right. I won't hassle you anymore. Just answer me one question, will you?"
"You're almost as nosy as I am," Marianne complained to the blue of the lake.
"Just what did Andrew do that was so hideously unforgivable?"
Marianne met her gaze calmly. "He asked me to marry him."
Jessica nodded. "Of course. Inexcusable in a man who loves you. I understand why you don't want to see him again."
"Stay out of it, Jessica."
"Yes, ma'am. Have fun berrying. We'll expect you when we see you."
Marianne relented. "I'll bring you enough for some raspberry shortcake."
"Made with white sugar," Jessica said with a pleased sigh. "Be careful in the woods. Watch out for marauding Scots."
Marianne's moue of disdain was her only reply as she ran back down the front steps. Jessica watched her stop long enough to say good-bye to her children on her headlong dash to the old Toyota. There was a sudden spring to her step, certainly not inspired by the thought of scrambling through the berry bushes, and Jessica found herself smiling ruefully. What a mess the two of them were.
And she turned her blue eyes down to the lake, to watch Springer. He'd taken his shirt off in the heat of the day, and the sun slid along his tanned back with a caressing hand. Jessica swallowed.
"Time for a walk, Matthew my love," she said briskly, rising from the porch and averting her eyes. "Shannon, Eric," she called. "Stop fighting and come for a walk with us."
"Can we go down to the lake, Jessica?" Eric asked eagerly as he scrambled up the steps, his sister trailing behind him.
"No!" she said, her voice strangled. "No," she repeated in a calmer voice, even managing a smile. "We'll go back toward the woods and see if we can see the baby foxes. We'll go swimming later."
"Okay," Eric agreed. "Do you think Mama might bring Andrew back with her?"
"I don't know. Do you want her to?"
He nodded. "Shannon and I like Andrew. We wa
nt him to stay with us."
"I think he'd like that, too. But it's going to be up to your mother." Jessica's voice was doubtful, and Eric shrugged.
"Yeah, I guess. But she doesn't have very good taste in men, does she?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, she married my dad, didn't she?"
There was no tactful answer to that simple question. "Let's go for our walk, guys. I'm afraid that we're going to have to let your mother sort out her own life."
Cameron's raspberries were incredibly good this year, Marianne thought as she popped another one into her mouth. Despite Jessica's knowing look, Marianne knew she had no ulterior motives in trekking out here. She had come only for the raspberries.
Of course, the raspberries didn't care that she'd stopped to brush out her tangled mane of chestnut hair, or pinched her cheeks to put some color into them, or opened the loose cotton shirt an extra button. And by the time her earthenware bowl was half full, Marianne didn't care much, either. The thorny branches had tangled her hair, scratched her hands and torn her clothes. But it was a beautiful day, with the lazy hum of the bees that were fighting for the raspberries, and the taste of the fruit was seductively sweet in her mouth; for a while she forgot about Andrew Cameron and that gnawing longing that had taken to sitting in the pit of her stomach.
"Woman," his rich Scottish voice filled her ears when she had almost given up hoping, "you have the most incredible gall. First you seduce and abandon me, and then you pilfer my raspberries again. Is there no end to the depths of your depravity?"
She turned, and it was an effort to keep a distant look on her face. "I figured once I had my wicked way with you I could get away with it. That's the only reason I slept with you, you know. To get at your raspberries."
He was very close, and there was a wary light in his green eyes, a hesitant curve to his mouth. He was wearing a loose cotton peasant shirt over his brown corduroys, and moccasins. He looked brown and lean and a little like a woodland elf, and for a moment all Marianne could do was stare at him, her heart in her eyes.
