Christine Rimmer - A Hero for Sophie Jones

by Christine Rimmer

  But you will cross it now, a voice in his head taunted. You will spend the night in her bed—and she will hate you later when she learns exactly what secrets you've kept from her tonight.

  He released her hem as she let her hair drop, the bronze mass cascading in a curling tangle down her back. "It's not a slip, it's a petticoat," she informed him. "And it's supposed to show."

  "A petticoat." The old-fashioned word charmed him.

  "Yes."

  "Women don't wear petticoats anymore."

  "This woman does." As she spoke, she took his arm and laid it across her shoulders. She slid him a mischievous grin. "All right?"

  "Fine with me."

  She leaned closer to him, fitting herself against him as if she belonged there. It felt very good. Soothing. To have her body touching his from shoulder to hip.

  They were quiet once more, until she let out a sigh, and he whispered, "What?"

  "Nothing. Life." She found his free hand and twined her fingers with his. "And you. I feel so close to you. Is that crazy?"

  "Definitely."

  "I don't care."

  "You should care."

  Sophie registered the warning in his voice. She lifted her head from his shoulder and looked at him again.

  Something had happened to her back in the house and then among the dark oaks. Some … sureness had come over her, that nothing that occurred between her and this man would ever be wrong. That a bond existed between them, never-ending and unbreakable: he who'd lost this place so young and she who was entrusted with the care of it now.

  Yes, it was corny. And outrageously, impossibly romantic. And to Sophie B. Jones, that was just fine.

  She lifted his hand and pressed it to her lips. "You feel it, too." He started to speak. She shook her head. "Don't."

  "What?"

  "Don't say you don't feel it. Don't tell a lie like that."

  He said nothing. He was thinking of his other lies, though she couldn't know that.

  She whispered, "And we do know each other." Now she guided their twined hands to her heart. "Here. Where it counts."

  Sin could feel her heartbeat, feel the firm slope of her breast.

  And her face was turned up to him, once more offering a kiss.

  This time he couldn't resist. He moved closer. And so did she. Their lips touched so lightly.

  It wasn't enough.

  Not near enough.

  He wanted more. He would have more. With a low, hungry moan, Sin settled his mouth over hers.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  « ^ »

  Warmth and life and breath made flesh, she melted into him. The scent of her surrounded him. Her soft lips gave beneath his, opening like some night-blooming flower to let him inside.

  He took what she so freely offered, pressing her back against the dark rock they sat on, pulling her up even closer to him, so he could feel her slim body all along his as he plundered the sweetness beyond her parted lips.

  But the rock was no good as a lovers' bed. Finally he had to end the kiss before they rolled off into the creek below. With a low groan of regret, he pulled away and looked down at her.

  Her brown-and-gold hair spilled across the rough rock and her face, in the darkness, glowed like some rare pale flower. Her eyelids fluttered open and she stared back at him, giving him a mirror of his own yearning—as well as her absolute trust.

  Trust he would ultimately demolish.

  "I live in the guest house, did I tell you?"

  He nodded.

  "Come there with me now."

  His body ached for the pleasure and release she would bring him. Yet, somewhere, far back in his mind, a stern voice commanded, Stop now, walk away. Or give her the truth.

  "Sinclair. Come with me." She lifted a hand and laid it on the side of his face. He turned toward that hand. She sighed when he kissed the tender heart of her palm. "Come with me," she murmured again.

  He opened his mouth, put his tongue out, tasted her flesh. She whispered his name on a moan.

  He clasped her waist, and then higher, until he encompassed the soft globe of her breast.

  "Now, Sinclair." She grasped his shoulder, the touch urgent and needful. "Let's go now."

  He lowered his mouth to hers once more, stopping just short of the kiss they both craved.

  "Sinclair." She used his name as a plea.

  "Yes," he said against her parted lips. "Yes. Let's go. Now."

  She led him along the creek again, and through the open field and the grove of oaks, then across the back lawn, through a rose arbor gate, to the small wood-frame house a hundred yards from Riker cottage.

  He recalled that house vaguely. For a while, when he was very small, his grandmother Bernadette had lived there. It held only good memories for him. With no feelings of uneasiness at all, he stepped over the threshold into the small living room.

  "I'll turn on some lights," she told him breathlessly.

  She left him standing near the door as she went to flick on a Tiffany-style standing lamp in a corner. The warm light spread over the room, showing him fat, comfortable chairs, a sofa upholstered with twining vines and flowers, and tables that looked like antiques, though none of them matched. Before the lace-curtained front window stood a big Boston fern in a Chinese pot painted with rearing dragons.

  On the walls were a number of pictures she must have picked up from estate sales or at flea markets, charming old-fashioned country scenes and a series of Victorian-looking prints. In one print, a turn-of-the-century lady sat at a writing desk, staring off into the middle distance as she composed her next line. In another, a man and a woman sat across from each other on twin love seats, sharing a coy look. And in a third, three golden-haired children picked flowers in a lush garden.

  All the individual pieces were different than the ones his grandmother had owned. But it still felt exactly the same. Inviting. Comforting. Cozy. Warm.

  "Hopelessly quaint, I know," Sophie said softly, still standing there by that Tiffany lamp.

  He let himself look at her again. "I like it." And he did. Which was just more insanity. His house in the Hollywood Hills was all clean lines, light woods and floor-to-ceiling windows. Thoroughly modernist, with no clutter at all. A monk's mansion, Willa had called it. And maybe it was. As a grown man, there had been no appeal for him in Victorian prints and overstuffed furniture. Until tonight…

  "Well." Sophie brushed her hands nervously against the front of her skirt. "I'm glad. That you like it." Though a smile tilted the corners of her mouth, he could see the apprehension in her eyes.

  He understood. Out there by the creek, under the spell of the night, making love with a stranger had seemed like just the right thing to do. But this wasn't a woman who gave her body to strangers. And now that they were actually here in her private space, her real nature had resurfaced. She couldn't keep the doubts at bay.

  Which was good, Sin told himself. Looked at logically, it was the best thing that could have happened—so why did he feel this sharp pang of regret?

  Hesitantly she moved toward him, stopping a few feet away, on the other side of that huge Boston fern. "I … my bedroom's that way." She gave a quick, awkward toss of one hand, toward the arch beyond her shoulder. He let his gaze follow the gesture, then looked at her once more.

  She gulped. "Well. Shall we…?"

  Slowly he shook his head.

  Bewilderment clouded her beautiful eyes. "No?"

  "Sophie. You're not ready for this." And neither am I, for that matter.

  She took in a breath and let it out slowly. "Yes. I am. I…"

  "Listen."

  "What?"

  "Just be a little practical. Think about safety. Think about … pregnancy."

  Her face went red to the roots of her shining hair. "Pregnancy." She whispered the word.

  Bluntness would be the kindest course. He took it. "Do you have contraception? Because I sure as hell don't."

  "Oh." She gulped aga
in. "I'm not… I didn't even think…"

  "I know. Neither did I. Until right now."

  She pressed her lips together, embarrassed, confused. She looked absolutely gorgeous to him in her indecision. He found he was becoming aroused all over again.

  Best to get out. Now. "Look. It's been … beautiful." He allowed himself a grin. "And awful."

  She actually smiled back. And then her eyes turned sad. "You're going."

  "Yes."

  "But … where?" Her honest face was so easy to read. She'd just realized she knew next to nothing about him. Nothing but his name, his distant past—the feel of his mouth on hers. "Um … where are you staying?"

  He named his hotel in nearby Grass Valley.

  "How … how long are you staying there?"

  He shrugged. "I can't say for sure. I have some business to take care of. I'll be here till it's handled." Which will be as soon as I can send you on your way.

  "I see." She dragged in another long breath and squared her slim shoulders. "Will you come back? Please? Tomorrow night. I'm free, same time as tonight, after the movie's over."

  He nodded. He would come back, all right. And he would have himself thoroughly under control. He'd get things straight with her. Explain that he was her new landlord—and he wanted her out. He'd make her his offer. She would take it or not.

  And that would be that. She would leave—or he would be forced to move to plan two.

  Either way, this thing between them would be finished, which was good. It never should have gotten started in the first place.

  "Around ten?" she asked so hopefully. "The show ends around ten."

  His conscience, rusty and rarely used, prodded at him: Why put it off? Why not tell her right now?

  He opened his mouth to do it. But all that came out was, "Fine. I'll see you at ten tomorrow night."

  Sophie barely slept a wink that night. What had happened between herself and Sinclair almost didn't seem real, now he was gone and she lay all alone in her bed.

  Really, she hardly knew a thing about him. He hadn't mentioned what he did for a living. Or how long he'd be staying in Grass Valley, or where he would go when he returned to wherever he now called home.

  If he didn't come back tomorrow night as he'd promised, the only way she could find him would be to visit that hotel he'd mentioned. And if he'd checked out, she might never see him again.

  But then, it was silly for her to think that way.

  Of course, he'd come back. He'd said that he would. And tomorrow night, she vowed to herself, when they were alone again, she'd learn more about him.

  She'd also make sure she was better prepared to go where her heart led her. True, she had a full day tomorrow. At this time of year, there was always more work to do than hours in the day. But inevitably, Myra would send her to pick up a few things. She could buy what she needed while she was out.

  He didn't come to the movie.

  Sophie sold the tickets from the small booth Caleb had made for her, right outside the barn doors. As each of her guests appeared out of the trees, coming from the small graveled area she'd designated as a parking lot, her heart rose—only to fall when she saw it wasn't him. By the time she'd closed the doors, shut the curtain from the entrance and concession area, and moved down in front to begin her introduction, she felt utterly bereft.

  Which was so silly.

  She'd told him to come after the movie—which he had seen just last night. There was no reason in the world for him to show up before ten.

  Except that she wanted him to. And though she knew it was totally irrational, she kept feeling in her heart that he should know and respond to the longing she felt, that he should feel it, too, and be incapable of staying away.

  Since he hadn't appeared before the show, she started hoping that he might come during intermission. She knew just how it should go: he would walk in, and she would hand him a bowl of popcorn and a bottle of spring water. She would look in his eyes and see a yearning so powerful—a longing every bit as overwhelming as her own.

  "I saved a seat for you," she would say, her voice low and intimate, only for him.

  He would give her one of those looks of his, a look that meant to be distant—yet couldn't help being tender. "Thanks for the popcorn," he would murmur teasingly.

  "You can help me wash the bowl later."

  He would chuckle and head for the seat she'd saved him in the fifth row.

  Through the whole of intermission, she kept expecting to look up and find him there, waiting to be handed his water and popcorn. But it never happened because he didn't come.

  The show ended at ten o'clock. When she pushed open the doors, she just knew he'd be waiting on the other side, with the pines and the moon, the night breeze and the stars.

  He wasn't.

  She forced goodbye smiles for her guests. By ten-fifteen they had all disappeared back through the trees toward the parking lot, except for the few who needed a place to spread their sleeping bags for the night. She sent them off to the campground.

  And then, all alone, she trudged back inside.

  He wasn't coming. She was certain of it now. Tomorrow, she'd have to reach some sort of decision. Should she risk making a complete fool of herself trying to track him down? Or just set her mind to forgetting him?

  Overhead, in the rafters, that pigeon she could never quite shoo out of there set to cooing. Sophie thought she'd never heard such a sad, lonely sound.

  She looked at the stacks of empty popcorn bowls and thought of how Sinclair should have been here, offering, as he had last night, to help with the cleaning up. She kept remembering the way it had been last night, the two of them, in the little space in back, leaning against the sink, flirting, getting to know each other a little.

  She couldn't face those bowls right now. It was just too depressing.

  She cleaned up behind the concession counter, then moved on to the rows of seats, gathering up the few empty drink containers that the occasional thoughtless guest inevitably dropped on the floor. She got the broom and swept up, and finally carried the trash out to the big industrial-size bin around back.

  By then, it was nearly eleven. And the popcorn bowls were still waiting.

  With a sigh, Sophie scooped up half of them and carried them through the curtain to the sink. She had squirted in the dish soap and started the water running when that low velvety voice spoke from behind her.

  "Let me make myself useful."

  A warm shiver passed through her and her heart rose up. Suddenly she felt light as a white cloud in a clear summer sky.

  But she didn't turn. Oh, no. After what he'd put her through, he didn't deserve to know he had her full attention—not yet, anyway. He came up on her left side, carrying the rest of the bowls. She edged to the right. The bowls in his hands tumbled into the sink. She watched the soap bubbles rising up beneath the stream of water.

  She started washing, still not looking at him. "You're late."

  He moved around her, to the other side of the sink. "No, I'm not." Turning the faucet his way, he started to rinse.

  "I said ten o'clock."

  "But I've been here since before the show started."

  She dared a quick glance at him. Tonight, he wore a blue shirt and dark slacks. And he was every bit as fine as she remembered. He stole her breath and made her heart do flip-flops. "Here? At the Mountain Star?"

  He nodded. "Down by the creek." Thinking of your eyes. Wanting only to see you. Dreading what I have to say to you.

  Sophie picked up another bowl, swirled it in the soap suds and passed it to him. She felt as if she might laugh out loud—or burst into tears. Yet she strove for lightness, and somehow found it. "Afraid to face me, huh?"

  You don't know the half of it. "Could be." He rinsed the bowl, set it to dry. "Caleb finally found me there."

  "By the creek, in our spot?"

  He looked at her then, a look of heat and longing, a look that made a day of agonized waiting worth it, aft
er all. He turned off the water. Without that soft, rushing sound, the small space seemed to echo.

  Into that echo, he asked, "You think of it as our spot now?"

  "I do."

  He lifted his wet hand and put his finger beneath her chin. She felt that touch all the way down to the absolute center of her being.

  "What … were you doing there?"

  "Nothing. Just sitting." He tipped up her chin. "Eventually Caleb found me there. He wanted to know what I was up to. I told him I was only sitting. Enjoying the creek and the trees. He let out a grunt, as if he didn't believe a word I'd said. And then he walked off and left me alone."

  "You said it yourself. He's protective of me."

  Sinclair moved his hand upward, so he cradled the side of her face. Sophie felt all quivery and warm—full of hope. And delicious desire. She did what he had done the night before, turning her face just enough that she could touch the soft inner pad at the base of his thumb with her lips. Water still clung there. She put out her tongue and licked it away.

  He said her name, low and rough. "Sophie." It sounded like a warning as well as a plea.

  Though only a few of the bowls had been washed, she reached for a towel, dried her hands and passed the towel to him. He used it, then hung it back on its peg. Before he could lower his hand, she caught it, cradled it, then smoothed the fingers open, so she could stroke his palm. "I thought you weren't coming. It was awful. Never do that to me. Please. Never again."

  "Sophie…"

  She looked up into his eyes. He muttered roughly, "We can't…" She did not waver. She kept looking right into his eyes. "Yes. We can. And we will."

  "You don't know…" He let the words trail off.

  "What?"

  Now, he wouldn't meet her eyes.

  She touched his jaw and guided his face around so he had to look at her again. "Tell me. You can say anything to me. Anything at all."

  But he said nothing.