“That’s the point. We’re going to learn. We’ll put it back together ourselves.”
He and Jason had managed to get the entire thing rebuilt, complete with a new motor, tires, and a paint job, in the first two months they’d been here. Jesse had thought to keep his brother occupied, take up his time so he didn’t miss Restoration all that much.
Bitterness caught in his throat. Apparently restoring the machine hadn’t taken nearly as much time as it should have. Jason had still had the chance to fall in with the wrong crowd and find himself a mess of trouble.
Jesse tamped down the regret and concentrated on the motorcycle. Wheeling it out into the lot, he did a quick check of the motor. Other than a thick layer of dust, everything seemed intact. He straddled the seat, flipped the key, and kicked the starter. The motorcycle coughed, sputtered, then died. He tried again, and again. Finally it caught.
Jesse gunned the engine with one hand and trailed his hands over the initials carved into the handlebars. He and Jason had done that first thing before they’d ever started to piece the ’79 Harley back together. They’d marked the bike as theirs, without any words having been spoken between them.
That was the problem. Jesse had always held his feelings in, never one to open himself up to heartache twice. He’d gone that route before, poured out his love to a mother who’d never loved him back. A woman who’d treasured a bottle of cheap bourbon more than her own son. And so he’d held back from his siblings.
But he had loved them. That was why he’d headed to work every day, pulled double shifts, provided for them as best he could. Why he’d uprooted them and brought them to Houston. For a better life.
And the entire time—ten years of being their provider, their protector, their mother and father—he’d never once said the words. He’d done to them what his mother had done to him. And though he knew instinctively that Martha Savage had loved him in her own way, he’d always wanted to hear her say it.
The boy he’d been had needed it so desperately. She should have told him, and because she hadn’t, he’d never completely forgiven her.
He should have told Rachel and Jason.
A knifing pain stabbed at his chest, and he took a deep breath. It wasn’t too late. Fulfilling his mission with Faith would give him another chance.
To speak the words.
To ask their forgiveness, tell them he loved them, and rid himself of the guilt eating at his soul.
His fingers traced the carved initials again. He hadn’t even had the chance to teach Jason to ride.
With a kick of the clutch, he sent the bike flying out of the lot. He hit the street and roared into the night, as if he could outrun the memories that lived and breathed in the old apartment building.
But Jesse couldn’t outrun his past, any more than he could break the invisible ties that connected him to Faith Jansen.
Chapter Seven
True to his word, Jesse returned the next day to fix Faith’s rain gutter.
“You don’t have to do that,” she told him as she stood outside on her back porch and shielded her eyes against the midmorning sun.
He was little more than a silhouette standing in the mouth of her garage. His toolbox lay open on a small workbench. Metal chinked, tools clanged as he retrieved the needed equipment to repair her failing rain gutter.
“You’ll be singing a different tune when the next storm hits and that gutter comes crashing into your roses.”
Her gaze went to the neglected bushes lining her porch. A few pink buds pushed past the overgrowth of thorns and weeds. She swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat.
“I would still feel better if you let me compensate you.”
He filled up the opening, a darker shadow against softer gray ones. She couldn’t make out his features, just the bright glitter of his eyes. His gaze crossed the several feet of overgrown grass to rake over her, and she suddenly wished she’d thought to put on something more than a tank top and shorts. “I mean, it’s an awful lot of work. I’d really be happy to pay you.”
“All right.” Another sweep of those twinkling eyes and her skin tingled.
“Why is it I get the feeling that you’re not interested in money?”
He gave no answer other than a smile, a devilish flash of white that sliced through the shadows and pebbled her nipples.
She took a deep breath, the effort pushing her breasts against the soft cotton of her tank top.
He stepped from the shadows. The smile vanished as his strong legs ate up the distance to her. He stopped just shy, dropped a few tools on the grass, and wiped at a thin trickle of moisture winding a path from his temple to his stubbled jaw. “Actually, I did have something different in mind.”
“And”—she cleared her throat—“um, what might that be?” As if she had to ask. She could see his answer plain as day in his eyes. Those beautiful, mysterious brown eyes that held just a hint of gold around the iris.
Dark and haunting, he stood on the ground two steps below her, their eyes level, gazes holding. It was as if a brilliant heat burned inside him, and when he looked at her, really looked at her, she glimpsed the fire within. The light. The desire—
“Iced tea,” he said, his gaze shuttering, as if he’d just remembered something important. “A glass of iced tea,” he repeated. “For the repairs.” He turned away from her then. Strong arms reached for the half-hanging piece of gutter, and it was as if she didn’t exist. He went about his work, his attention fixed on his task. Muscles rippled beneath the damp cotton of his T-shirt. Sweat beaded on his face, dripped down his corded neck. She had the incredible urge to reach out, catch a drop of perspiration, and taste the saltiness of moisture and skin against her tongue….
He shot her a sideways glance, his gaze colliding with hers for a heart-stopping moment. His eyes glittered hotly, the look having nothing to do with the sun and everything to do with the lustful thoughts racing through her mind. He knew. He knew.
Impossible.
She forced herself back into the kitchen, her heart hammering, her nipples still erect and throbbing. What was the matter with her? She was acting like she’d never been looked at by a man before.
Not this man.
So what?
She didn’t want his looks, his hungry gazes. She didn’t want to see the gold shimmering in his eyes, and she didn’t want to be having such erotic thoughts about him.
She wanted solitude. Time to herself. Time to heal.
She put the tea on to brew and busied herself feeding Grubby his breakfast, determined to ignore the hot and sweaty man moving around so close to her back door. But how could she when she heard every chink, every clang, every deep, even breath that he drew … ? Impossible.
Still, the sound filled her head, and she couldn’t help but wonder if she was really hearing him, or her imagination. There was a quick way to find out. She could take a little peek, test the rise and fall of his chest, and assure herself she was crazy.
Faith peered past the kitchen curtains and found herself staring into those disconcerting eyes. She jerked back and heard his deep rumble of laughter.
Stiffening, she swept aside the curtains again and glared at him.
“You scared me.”
“You shouldn’t be spying on me.”
“I wasn’t spying. I was seeing if you were finished.”
“You shouldn’t be lying either, but I’m willing to forgive you if you get me something to drink.” He wiped his sweaty brow. “This sun is killing me.”
“The tea’s almost ready,” she promised and as if on cue, the kettle whistled. A few glasses, a lot of ice cubes, and a cup of sugar later, she walked out onto the back porch and handed him a cold glass dripping with condensation.
He drank the contents in one long swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing, streams of ice-cold tea chasing down his chin.
Faith swallowed.
“Another?” he finally asked, holding his glass out.
Whe
n she returned a few minutes later, she had a glass for him and one for herself. He settled down on the steps and patted the seat next to him.
“I won’t bite,” he promised.
That’s too bad, she thought to herself, the sight of him voraciously downing the glass of tea still vivid in her mind.
He grinned and her heart skipped a beat. “Unless you’re real nice to me,” he added, and a wave of heat swept up from her toes, clear to the roots of each hair on her head, pausing in between to concentrate on a few strategic spots that made her shift uncomfortably and gulp at her own iced tea.
Geez, it was hot. Even for Texas.
They spent the next hour drinking iced tea, the lush scent of roses surrounding them.
“So, you like to garden?” His gaze went to the weed-infested rosebushes.
“I dabble when I’m in the mood. Every Saturday afternoon I used to come out here with—” The name stuck in her throat and she took a sip of tea. “Saturday was my trimming and weeding day,” she finished.
“I don’t know much about gardening, but if you show me what to do, I could help you whip these babies back into shape. From the looks of things, you could use an extra pair of hands.”
She’d once had an extra pair. Jane had been so eager, so careful with the trimming shears.
Faith’s gaze dropped to his large, tanned hands, the nails short, fingers long and tapered, but not elegant. Nothing about Jesse Savage was elegant. His hands were powerful, strong, confident, comforting … as if they could hold the weight of the world one minute, and cradle the fragile body of a helpless, spoiled puppy the next.
“So, what do you say?” He took a swallow of tea. “You want some help clipping these bushes back into shape?”
“If I say no?”
He grinned. “Your lips might say no but your eyes say yes, honey.”
The cheesy line made her smile. “Which means you won’t take no for an answer?”
He shrugged again. “I’ve never been really good with rejection.”
Her gaze went back to his hands, to the puckered ridge of flesh that ran across the back of one. Again, she felt the urge to reach out, to comfort. “If I say no, you’ll show up anyway, won’t you?”
“Probably.” He clasped his hands, rubbing them together.
“Then be here tomorrow morning after the kids leave for school.” She stood and dusted off the back of her shorts. “We’ll get started then. And when we’re finished,” she added before going back into the house, “the hose on my clothes dryer is loose, there’s a stubborn ceiling fan that won’t turn in my kitchen, and I’ve got fire ants near the back fence. If I can’t get rid of you, I might as well keep you busy.”
“I’ve created a monster,” she heard him murmur as she closed the door.
His deep rumble of laughter followed her, sending tickling fingers of warmth dancing up and down her spine. And when Faith placed the empty tea glasses in the sink and spotted the Houston Rockets mug sitting on the drainboard, she didn’t feel the cold bite of regret.
A smile crooked her lips, and Jesse’s voice echoed in her head, ringing with an undeniable, comforting truth.
She lives on inside you. Inside …
The next morning, Faith met him on the back porch with her gardening tools. They worked through the morning until every weed had been pulled, the bushes had been neatly trimmed, and the frail buds tended. They drank iced tea and talked about Bradley and the kids, and afterward, Jesse headed back to Faith’s House.
They repeated the same routine the next day, only Faith tended the rosebushes alone while Jesse worked on the dryer; then she fed him lunch. Food in exchange for work. That way she didn’t feel quite so indebted to him.
That was the only reason, she told herself. It certainly wasn’t that she liked his company or wanted to keep him around a few extra minutes each day. The last thing she wanted was company. Anyone’s company. She was an island unto herself. If only Jesse Savage didn’t seem so intent on an invasion.
Not that an invasion would be bad, she amended. A physical one, at least. It had been so long, and she was so lonely. She didn’t realize just how much until Jesse climbed onto his motorcycle every day and roared away.
Hormones, she told herself. She was a young, healthy woman who’d been without a man for a long time. And though she’d never been promiscuous, maybe the three times she’d actually had sex had awakened her physically, though they’d done little emotionally. She knew what it felt like to be touched by a man, and her body was craving it. Craving him.
She ached for his voice rumbling in her ear. His smile warming her insides. The brush of his skin against hers whenever he happened to move past her. The sparkle in his dark eyes when he laughed.
Just biology, she assured herself. Because she couldn’t, wouldn’t feel anything more for Jesse Savage.
Or anyone else, even though he tried to persuade her otherwise. He was subtle, but no matter what they talked about, he always brought the conversation back to Faith’s House. To the kids.
She heard all about Ricky and Emily, and the nine others. And she received a daily report on Daniel’s progress, or lack of, at the hospital.
“Maybe you could talk to him,” he told her a few days later after he’d finished annihilating the ant beds in the backyard. They sat on the porch steps, side by side, drinking iced tea as the sunny sky grumbled above them.
She shook her head. “I’m no psychiatrist.” She shielded her eyes and stared up at the sun. No clouds, yet the unmistakable growl of thunder gave the sweet promise of rain.
“You probably know a hell of a lot more than most psychiatrists. And you’re his foster mother,” Jesse pointed out.
He was right on both counts. She wasn’t a doctor, but she was a trained counselor with a degree in sociology, not to mention she’d been working with kids for years. She knew how they reasoned, reacted—what made them tick. And she’d yet to sign over Faith’s House to Bradley. She’d been too busy tending her rosebushes and making tea. But she would find the time, she promised herself.
Soon.
Eventually.
“Technically I’m Daniel’s foster parent, but Bradley is acting in my absence, with CPS approval, and he’s just as good as I ever was. Daniel’s his job.” The sky grumbled again and Faith added, “I hope it rains soon. I’m watering the rosebushes, but they need a good shower to really bloom.”
“But Brad isn’t getting anywhere,” he added, ignoring her attempt to change the subject. “Daniel won’t even talk to him.”
“Then he certainly won’t talk to me. He hates me.” Faith could still remember the coldness in the boy’s blue eyes, his hatred stirring her own feelings until they’d boiled over and she’d run out of the hospital.
“He senses something inside you and it makes him uncomfortable. Probably because he knows you care. Boys like Daniel don’t want anyone to care about them.”
“Why is that, Dr. Spock?” She turned her attention from the sunny sky to the shadowy man sitting next to her.
“Because then he’d have to care in return.”
“He has the right idea.” She took a long sip of tea. “No caring, no hurt.”
“Amen,” Jesse murmured, or at least she thought he did, but when she asked him, he just shook his head and muttered, “I said he’s almost a man. A few more years and it’ll be too late for him.”
“It’s never too late.” She said the words before she could stop them. “Can we please stop talking about this?”
“You know I’m right.”
“I know if you don’t stop needling me about all this—” Her words stalled as a fat raindrop splashed onto her bare leg. “It’s raining,” she said, turning a smile on Jesse.
As if her words had opened up the heavens, a steady sprinkle began to fall, cool specks of relief against the onslaught of the sun’s bright rays. “Thank God,” she murmured, jumping to her feet to inspect her roses. Rain beaded on the velvety smooth petals, and
Faith breathed a sigh of relief. “There you go, babies,” she crooned. “Drink up.”
“Look at them,” she said with all the pride of a new mother. “They look healthier already.”
“Very healthy,” he agreed. Something about the husky tone of his voice drew her gaze, and she found him staring at her. Her tank top was already soaked, molding to her breasts to leave little to the imagination. Her nipples hardened at the realization, making distinct impressions. Jesse swallowed. Hard.
“I—I was talking about the roses.”
“So was I,” he said, but his gaze didn’t move.
Faith drew a much-needed breath, the action making her breasts heave, swell.
He swallowed again, his gaze fixed, his body as still as a statue.
They simply stood there like that for endless moments, him staring, her breathing, the rain falling softly around them.
Water drip-dropped down Jesse’s dark skin, soaking his own T-shirt until she saw every ripple of muscle, every ragged breath he took. And suddenly the urge to touch him superseded the urge to draw breath.
She reached out, her fingertip circling one dark male nipple outlined beneath the wet fabric of his white T-shirt. He sucked in a breath, not moving for the space of a heartbeat as she touched and stroked.
“They were thirsty,” she said, her mind on the roses, yet her body completely tuned to his.
“I know the feeling.” His words were hoarse as her fingertip trailed down over the cotton-covered ribs of his abdomen. “I’m hungry myself.”
“You mean thirsty.”
“No,” he said, catching her wrist to halt her exploration. “I mean hungry. Starving.” Then he pulled her up against him.
The motion was desperate, like a man gone too long without sustenance. His arms encircled her. His hands spanned her waist, then cupped her buttocks to pull her flush against him. He lifted her, urging her legs up on either side of him.
He slid her up the hard ridge of his groin until he was eye-level with her chest. Hot breath puffed against one throbbing nipple; then his tongue flicked out. Heat licked the tip of the sensitive peak and a burst of electricity sizzled to her brain. She moaned, bowing into him, needing his mouth on her.
Faithless Angel Page 11
