What was he trying to do to her? He hadn’t said one word about the house, not when he was trying to convince her to come west with him, not during the three days they spent in his ghost town. She walked out of the bathroom and turned the corner to find Jake in the open kitchen, holding a cup of peppermint tea out to her. That struck another note of anxiety; so he had stocked peppermint tea. He must have bought it even before the trip. Jake leaned back against the counter as Anne took the warm cup in her hands. He said nothing, as if waiting.
Words struggled out of her dry throat. “This house cost more than a penny here and there.”
“A little more coin than that, yes.” He made a sweeping gesture. “The whole place needs furniture.”
“And pictures.”
He nodded. “White carpeting probably isn’t particularly practical?”
It was terribly impractical. Anne loved the house, though. All of it, from the gleaming appliances and easy-care surfaces, to its impossible-to-keep-clean white carpeting, to the pastel accents, always favorites of Anne’s. She put down the cup and touched cool fingertips to her temples. Her eyes riveted on a tiny patch in the knee of Jake’s jeans and couldn’t seem to focus anywhere else. She couldn’t remember a single time since she’d met him that he hadn’t worn patched jeans.
Gradually, she forced her eyes to stop staring. Just as gradually her gaze made its way past the blue chambray shirt, open at the throat, past lips no longer smiling, past that strange nose of his that gave him such a strong profile. Gray eyes met hers, fiercely concentrating on the fragile paleness of her own face. “There are times, Jake,” she said in a low voice, “when you scare the hell out of me.”
“Then first,” he suggested, “we’d better take care of that.”
He only had to take a step to reach her, to capture her trembling lips with his own. She was so strangely cold, and then not at all. The warmth of his arms was reassuring, welcomed more than she could tell him. Her hands swept up to his muscle-padded shoulders, as familiar as the taste of him, as the feel of iron thighs rubbing against her own. This was Jake, no stranger…
Yet he was a stranger. She’d known Jake the lover forever, but, as he himself had said, she’d never known the man before. She knew the wildly impulsive lover who could buy out a townful of violets on a whim, who wrapped up silver ingots as a surprise, who could stalk her through a crowded room like a silver wolf without another soul guessing what was going on. No woman could resist the fantasy web of magic Jake could weave- but how long had Anne equated the fantasy with the total man?
Only now did she realize the different kind of web he’d been spinning day by day. His cactus salad and threat of yellow-jacket soup-how like the Jake she once thought she knew. Now her heart remembered something more, her response to the very strength of the man, the soul of a survivor who knew his way around the wilderness.
His friends, too… They didn’t live at all according to her preferred lifestyle, but neither were they leading the here-today-gone-tomorrow lives she’d expected. Stereotypes wouldn’t do; they were simply good people, caring people, and the way they cared for Jake had touched her.
His ghost town-and how exotic she’d been afraid that place would be-had turned out to be simply a haven. And his silver-she’d been so sure he’d been taken in by some con artist selling worthless stocks. And last, his house, built half on land, half on water-so like Jake. So very like Jake. Only she was not fooled this time. The house was a clear offer of exactly the kind of security he knew mattered to Anne, and she felt as if he’d spun a cobweb tightly around her like a silken net.
Panic still quickened her pulse, a panic she couldn’t explain. She just couldn’t make decisions right now, not the decisions he wanted from her. Fear warred with a far more primitive, simpler emotion…the need to be held by him. To be held so close she didn’t have to think for a minute. She didn’t want to think. It seemed far more desperately important to let him know she saw the man, loved the man, not just old images and fantasies. A fierce hunger rushed through her veins as his hands crushed her hair, as his lips brushed hers, over and over. He made the foolish mistake of trying to lift his mouth from hers to take a breath. She wooed his lips back to hers, enticing him with a soft, sweet, murmured plea.
He caught the mood. The hold-me, don’t-talk, fierce-sweet mood. Lips clung and tongues tangled and Jake didn’t let go. His eyes flickered on hers once, so very gray; she saw his surprise at the woman who’d always savored a softer seduction-surprise…and pleasure, for the uninhibited response she was offering. That instant changed everything for Anne. She forgot her fears, forgot his house, put aside the thought of marriage, life, death, everything. Just Jake mattered. Her breasts played the rub and tease of a Gypsy dance against him; her thigh brushed between his; her fingers whispered over his neck, into his hair. If he wanted her to be aggressive, she would be aggressive. He could have anything he wanted. From her depth of love came his endless choices.
Jake’s breathing changed, turned harsh and low. He pulled her flannel shirt free from the waistband of her jeans, his hands stealing inside to find soft flesh…but they didn’t find flesh. His fingers splayed over the sexy satin camisole he had bought her.
“I wore it for you,” she whispered. “Do you like it?”
“Not,” he growled, “at the moment.”
She would have smiled if she’d had the chance. She didn’t. His lips sealed hers as he lifted her high, his tongue still savoring all the sweetness of her mouth. They were going to bump into walls on the way to the bedroom, she knew that. Jake certainly wasn’t paying any attention to where they were going. And she couldn’t seem to raise any interest in opening her eyes. Her hands were feverishly trying to undo his shirt buttons-which refused to cooperate. The throb of his heartbeat beneath her palm seemed to announce the start of something-a race, perhaps. A terribly important race in midafternoon with the sun so lazily beating down on the still waters of the lake. His house was totally silent except for the sound of Jake’s breathing as he set her down next to the shaggy white spread in his room, as his hands chased the shirt down from her shoulders. She was busy with his own, finally understanding why his buttons wouldn’t give-they were Western snaps. One ruthless tug and they obediently pulled apart. The sound of that snap-snap-snap in their quiet house… Jake gently nudged up her chin with his thumb. She saw the sensual fire in his eyes, his suddenly roguish grin.
“I don’t know what on earth you think you’re doing to me, but I like it,” he murmured. “In the meantime, who punched the fire alarm?”
Anne kissed him quiet, smile matched to smile on their lips. He was such a very foolish man at times. Why on earth would anyone have punched a fire alarm when the whole world was welcome to burn down?
They could have undressed a great deal faster if they’d taken off their own clothes, but they didn’t. They slipped off each other’s shoes, then socks. Arms and wrists crisscrossed in an effort to immediately undo each other’s belts and buttons and zippers. Very low whispered laughter came from nowhere. Anne’s cords made a puddle on the floor, then Jake’s. The race only slackened because of the triangular window.
She’d forgotten it, but now she saw the colors shimmering on Jake’s golden flesh, the luminous hues dancing in her hair, in his. When Jake moved to touch her, his whole body seemed liquid in motion, a kaleidoscope of fluid coral and light purple. Fascinated, she watched his hands as they slowly reached to touch the spot above her heart. Her breasts, too, looked jeweled. It was like crossing over to a magical world.
From rampant speed to slow motion, their moods had changed. So slowly Jake unlaced the front ties of the camisole. As he slipped down the straps, the fabric slowly parted to reveal firm, creamy soft breasts, proud nipples flaunted for him, her bareness displayed in patterns of diamond and silver lilac and coral. The garment slid to her feet; he again lifted her high.
“Look at you,” he whispered. “Look at you, love…”
She w
as looking at him, aware of the texture of the shaggy spread when he laid her down, aware he was taking off the last of his clothes, but interested far more in the look of color and shadow on his skin. He was a beautiful man. Sinew more than muscle, a grace that was pure male, a pride he didn’t know he even had, every time he moved. And he was always in motion. His head was at her breast, his lips seeking first one nipple, then the other. Their peaks turned rigid for him. The look of his brown hand next to her so-white flesh sent lightning, long jagged streaks of it, flashing through her bloodstream. His hand traced the soft flesh of her stomach and then traveled lower, evoking an unconscious cry from Anne.
He inhaled that sound, in a kiss that left her breathless. A languid, sensual weakness was trying to steal over her limbs, a memory of Jake’s power as seducer…but that was not what she wanted for him, not this day. She shifted away from him, just slightly. Her fingertip traced slowly down, burrowing in the hair on his chest, pausing to circle the pebble of flat male nipple. On down, to explore a flat, hollow navel, hidden in silver wiry hair. His pelvic bone, she traced all of it…
His whole body went taut. His hand found hers, drawing it back to her side as he leaned over her. Dark, luminous eyes seared her own. What is it you want?
For you to lie still. This was new for her, playing the role of aggressor. It was new, the depth and confusion of love she felt for Jake; she needed to express it. She could feel those silver eyes watching her, but he was silent. He watched her flick back the errant strands of long hair. Her fingers danced over his skin, then rubbed, then teased again with lightness. Her lips followed. Her need was to please him, and she forgot that he was watching. Her long, silky hair-he’d always loved it. She took a handful and gently brushed the strands over his chest, down his stomach, lower still to much more intimate flesh, taking an incredibly long time…
From nowhere, she found herself flat on her back again, her eyes filled with a rainbow of stained-glass prisms, all reflected on Jake’s face. “Honey, give me credit for the patience of a saint,” he murmured.
“No one would suggest you were a saint,” she began on a husky murmur.
“This time, yes. Oh, yes, Anne. But no more…”
He took her with the light still dancing on them, the afternoon sun still so delightfully pouring through the windows. When light gave way to late-afternoon dusk, they napped. But when it was dark, moonlight played through the stained-glass window, and they were again caught up in the magic of the senses. Jake played the slow torturer this time, a role he had always assumed expertly. But Anne was learning.
***
The next day was busy and the next, and the next. Anne had a long list of things to accomplish-unpack the motor home, put away the food, vacuum and scour the vehicle, buy groceries, wash clothes, whisk away the thin layer of dust in Jake’s house…
Jake had an equally long list of priorities. A long walk through the woods behind his house, a boat excursion on the lake, lunch in the gazebo over the water. His list was longer than Anne’s. He had a lot of odd hours scheduled for more critical activities: laughing, making love.
On Wednesday, a storm whipped up on the lake around noon, distracting both of them. Lightning pierced the frothing water in sizzling yellow slashes, casting a fluorescent glow on the surrounding trees. Branches shook and swayed in a mad dance, and thunder roared out huge, angry bellows that seemed to surround the house. The clear, still waters of the lake turned wild, and if Jake’s arms hadn’t been around her, the vision from Jake’s glass-paneled living room would have been close to terrifying.
They watched for an hour, until nature’s fireworks settled down to a steady, pelting rain. They turned to each other then, Jake with a rueful smile for the day’s plans gone awry. “No walk today,” he said wryly.
Anne had to agree. And she couldn’t have been less eager to do household chores, either. “A good book,” she suggested.
“And hot cider with cinnamon sticks.”
They holed up in the study, Anne at one end of the couch and Jake at the other. After a great deal of fussing, they got their legs tucked together properly, rested their warm mugs of cider on their chests, and opened up their respective books. A financial bestseller for Anne, a Mickey Spillane novel for Jake. They chuckled at each other’s idea of a good book, and then both heads bent down.
Anne tired first, setting down her mug to stare absently at the oak desk. Papers had begun to pile up there since they’d arrived. It seemed this was to be their office. The look of never-serious rogue didn’t fool Anne anymore, though Jake had obviously scheduled a total vacation for himself these few weeks, although he’d made more than a few business calls when he thought she wasn’t looking. Anne didn’t let on that she noticed. The man she was so restlessly, so totally, frighteningly in love with didn’t want her to think he had anything on his mind but her.
Unfortunately, that made her love him more.
Unconsciously she found herself studying him, the beak nose and sun-weathered skin, the silvery sideburns that truthfully needed a trim, the way his brows arched downward in concentration. Her eyes softened helplessly, the longer she looked at him.
There was a small corner in her head that was still holding out on Jake; she couldn’t explain why. The dozens of things that had always made a permanent relationship with Jake impossible…many of them he had dispelled. The house-she knew it was for her, a measure of his knowing how much she valued security. And if his involvement with silver still struck uneasy chords she could not deny his serious attitude toward it. This was no fly-by-night venture for him; he knew what he was doing. Coeur d’Alene was a perfectly lovely place to raise children…
Several times, she nearly interrupted whatever they were doing to tell him she wasn’t going home at the end of the week. Yet she hadn’t. She knew she loved him, a fool couldn’t doubt he loved her. But there was something, a restless, ceaseless worry in the back of her head at the very center of her heart.
How long would he really want to settle down? Would he be happy in the same place, playing father and husband just like other men? Could cautious Anne, hung up on stability and schedules, really hold his interest for the long term?
His eyes flickered to hers, and she hurriedly opened her book again. To the same page she’d already read four times. Jake’s toe suddenly started a lazy circular motion on her hip. Her palm enclosed his toes scoldingly. He chuckled.
“You’re bored with that book,” he accused.
“I am not.”
“You are. When are you going to amble over to the desk and sort out my mess?”
She flipped the page. “You don’t make a mess. You just keep on with that theme because you know it makes me worry about you.” Narrowed eyes scolded him over the top of her book. “A typical masculine ploy.”
“How could you misjudge me so terribly?” He sounded wounded.
She plied a fingernail down the length of his foot, and chuckled when he laughed. They read for another moment or two, until Jake said casually, “The IRS is going to do an audit on me next month.”
Every muscle in Anne’s body went instantly rigid.
Chapter 14
Like a general facing Code Red, Anne’s mind registered Emergency with frightening efficiency. Jake smiled at her lazily. The next five minutes were a mass of confusion. Jake opened up four paneled doors, revealing built-in drawers and cabinets, boxes of tumbling papers. Anne raced to the kitchen to make coffee. Desk drawers opened and slammed; Anne adjusted the light above the desk.
The noise abruptly ended. Jake returned to his Mickey Spillane adventure, occasionally rising long enough to refill the coffee cup on her desk. The storm ended in late afternoon, and dusk settled in with total calm. When Jake brought in a tray of sandwiches and set it on the carpet, Anne rose from behind the desk for the first time in two and a half hours. She settled cross-legged on the floor, across the tray from Jake, vaguely aware that two weeks ago she would never have considered picnicking on
the carpet when there were perfectly good tables strewn throughout the house. An irrelevant thought.
Jake handed her a sandwich, a huge amalgamation of ham and bacon and turkey and lettuce and cheese, so thick she could barely get her fingers around it. “So what do you think?” he asked casually.
“That it would take an efficiency expert months to get you organized.” Green eyes made every attempt to cow the humor in his own. “Have you ever heard of the word file?”
“Sure.”
“I don’t believe it. Spell it.”
“F-i-l-e,” he obliged. He swallowed a mouthful of sandwich, not easy to do when he was wearing his widest crooked grin. “The lady is about to spit a little fire,” he speculated to thin air.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Just because you’ve stuffed receipts in shoe boxes? Just because you’ve got active bank books buried in a mound of candy wrappers?” She took a sip of tea. “Did it ever vaguely occur to you that when you fill out your tax returns in crayon, the IRS might get a little curious?”
“Now, Anne. Let’s not exaggerate.”
“No one overpays the IRS one year by some ridiculous sum, and then the next year turns in a half-done tax return with a big check and a note that says, ‘I’m sure this will cover it.’” Her voice was rising in spite of herself.
“I was busy last year at tax time.” He brushed the crumbs from his hands, his silvery eyes glinting on hers, full of amusement, and certainly not concerned. “Why does everyone see the IRS as some kind of enemy? I don’t care if they come here and turn everything topsy-turvy. What’s the difference? I’ve got nothing to hide.”
Silver and Spice Page 16
