A Loving Man

by Cait London

  Now, the sunlight shafted through the store’s windows and tipped her dark brown eyelashes in fire. An answering flame danced in his heart, in his loins.

  Ten years of abstinence was far too long, he decided instantly, and wondered if the flush upon her face would be the same after they made love. He longed to see her soft and drowsy beneath him. Somehow, his instincts told him that he had found a woman to enjoy and treasure; with her, he could find peace.

  “I don’t like being made a fool of,” Rose shot at him angrily, shredding his vision of peace and pleasure.

  “Ah, so then, you retreat from the battle,” he nudged again. “You fear you might like me. You fear that I might catch more fish than you. You fear that your father will like me, too.”

  Her lips parted and she blinked up at him, her expression blank. “You haven’t talked all day and now you’re saying too much. Don’t you get it? I’m mad at you.”

  He shrugged, determined to have his way. “So you do retreat. I have won.”

  Those blue eyes widened and blinked again. “Won what?”

  “The game. You are afraid. You retreat. I win. Simple.”

  She shook her head and the reddish hues in her hair caught the overhead light. “You wouldn’t like fishing at the lake. Chiggers, mosquitoes, every biting insect possible,” she explained. “When the flies bite here, it hurts. The johnboat isn’t a yacht—it’s a chopped-off metal boat—and the crappie are sporting, but they aren’t swordfish, Mr. Donatien.”

  “It sounds delightful,” he said, watching that faint sunlight stroke her cheek and wondering if the freckle pattern continued over her body. He went a little light-headed thinking about those long, athletic limbs, those perfect apple-shaped breasts, the way she took fire. Rose Granger was a passionate woman for certain, and just watching her move provoked an excitement in his body that he hadn’t expected.

  She inhaled slowly, balled her fists at her sides, and frowned up at him. “Be at the north end of the lake at six-thirty. You’ll have to find the johnboat tied to the dock. I’ve got to pick up Dad.”

  “I must get the paint my mother wishes.”

  “Take care of your own order. Just leave the cash on the counter, or leave your check and I’ll send the change to you,” Rose said, moving restlessly behind the counter and avoiding his gaze.

  She was sweet and shy of him, Stefan realized as she hurried out the back door. He enjoyed that little jiggle of soft flesh below her shorts’ ragged hem; he traced her long legs down to the back of her knees. He closed his eyes, riveted by the need to kiss her there, where she seemed most vulnerable and virginal.

  In a good mood, because he would spend time with an enchanting woman later, Stefan kissed one of the flamingos’ plastic beaks. He frowned into the bird’s vacant yellow eyes. Was he nervous? His first attraction to a woman, since his wife? But, of course, and he was so hungry for the taste of that lush, sassy mouth—

  Carrying her tackle box and fishing pole, Rose tromped from her pickup, across the lush grass of the lake’s bank. She’d tried desperately to rouse her sleeping father and had failed. She’d debated leaving Stefan—the wealthy, continental businessman she’d ordered around all day—to the mosquitoes and biting red chiggers. But her competitive streak, which allowed her to be captain of the mixed softball team, was revved. Nothing could have kept her from watching him itch—payback for deceiving her all day.

  Her thoughts slapped against her in rhythm to the sound of her plastic thongs. She glanced at the slash of scarlet, a male cardinal bird in the oak trees. If he had only spoken just one word, she would have known who he was—his deep enchanting accent would have marked him as the newcomer…though he didn’t seem as cold as Harry at the gas station had inferred.

  She pushed away the memory of Stefan’s smile at the pink flamingos. It was excited, almost as if he were a boy, excited at winning trophies.

  Stefan was sitting on the dock, his pole already in the water, the shadows and sunlight flowing over his body, the water sparkling beyond him. At around six-feet four inches he could intimidate with that dark scowl, but not her. Her thongs clumped as she walked out onto the dock, studied the metal johnboat and decided she didn’t want to baby the worn motor into life. She slung her backpack—filled with cola, a peanut butter sandwich and insect repellent—down to the worn boards of the dock. Out in the glimmering still water, a big mouth bass surged up for a juicy water bug, reminding Rose of how she had taken Stefan’s challenge. She glanced at the expert way Stefan cast into the lake’s dead timber, the perfect place for a “crappie bed.” It was her private place. “Dad couldn’t come. We can fish here,” she said. “You stay on your side of the dock, and I’ll stay on mine. You’d better have your fishing license. I like your mother. I don’t like you.”

  His hair was damp, curling at his nape and that all-man soap smell curled erotically around her. The clean T-shirt tightened across his shoulders as he patted the billfold in his back pocket. “I have a license…. So you have had a bad day, and you wish to take it out on me, right?” he asked.

  Rose slipped off her thongs, plopped down on the dock and dangled her legs over the side as Stefan was doing. She wouldn’t be waylaid by that sexy, intimate accent. She opened her tackle box and selected just the right fishing “jig,” a plastic lure to entice crappie. Only meeting Stefan’s challenge had kept her from falling facedown on her bed and sleeping through Sunday. She was not a woman who offered and then took back her invitation. She cast, propped the handle of her pole into the slot between the boards and took out her insect repellent, rubbing it on her arms and legs. She sniffed lightly and recognized the slight tang of citronella, also an insect deterrent, coming from Stefan. He would not be leaving her dock soon. “Can we just be quiet?” she asked. “I’ve looked forward to this all week.”

  For the next half hour, she felt the old dock tremble slightly as Stefan cast into her favorite fishing hole. The crappie responded to his lure, flip-flopping in the water as he reeled them in and released them. She refused to ask what he was using for bait, because nothing was nibbling at her line. He held up one and asked, “How do you prepare crappie?”

  She looked over her shoulder and wished she hadn’t. The fish was Old George, a legendary giant of a crappie, who had escaped her hook. “You wait until you get a ‘mess’ and then fillet, score, bread in flour and cornmeal and fry. Or you might dip them in egg or beer batter…serve with wilted lettuce…But I’d throw that one back, he’s too small,” she lied, because she wanted Old George on her dinner table. “Did you enjoy yourself today, your little masquerade?”

  He unhooked Old George and tossed him back into the lake. Stefan dipped his hands in the lake and washed them as would an experienced fisherman. He looked over his shoulder at her and grinned. It was a devastating, boyish grin that took her breath away. “I learned so much.”

  Rose turned back and promptly missed the dip of her red bobber in the water as a fish nibbled on her lure. It was difficult to concentrate when Stefan spread his blanket, sat upon it and began opening the basket he had brought. “My mother likes you, too. She was excited that I had a date with you and packed this meal for us.”

  Rose pivoted to him, temper flashing. “This isn’t a date, Mr. Donatien.” She leveled her words at him, not wanting him to get any flashy, upscale ideas about a country girl.

  “But I am with a very fascinating woman and I am enjoying myself. Surely that is a date.” He began unpacking, carefully placing a wine bottle that looked very costly, onto the blanket. He opened the bottle with a flourish and poured the wine into two very expensive-looking stemmed glasses. He unwrapped cheese and studied it. “My mother thinks she will make cheese here. She is happy and reliving her young life on a French farm, I think. My daughter is…happy in one way, not so in another.”

  Rose watched as he sliced the cheese and a very-hard looking sausage, placing crusty bread rolls beside it. She couldn’t resist the temptation to ask, “Why isn’t you
r daughter happy?”

  He shrugged a broad shoulder and looked out at the peaceful lake. His features were unreadable. “She is happy to be here. She is not happy with me. It is a hard passage from the girl to the woman. A boy I do not like wants her.”

  Rose stared at him; the unlikely, worldly Donatiens moving to Waterville suddenly made sense. “You maneuvered this whole move to Waterville, didn’t you? Just to get her away from—”

  Stefan scowled and handed her one filled wineglass. “From Louie The Freeloader. Estelle wished to live in an average, small town and I merely arranged her wishes. Perhaps I was ready for a change, too. My mother had been speaking of her homeland and selfishly, I wished to keep my family—what there is of it—together. Waterville was selected after very thorough research. We will spend the summer here. The farm was a compromise to make them both happy. It had been up on the market since the Smiths decided to see the West in their camper. There is a college some miles away, which might suit Estelle’s needs, if she wishes to transfer.”

  “I hate to tell you this, Pops, but there are hot-blooded boys here in Waterville, too.” Rose sipped the wine and studied him. “You left everything to prevent Louie and Estelle from—”

  His scowl deepened. “They have not consummated. I would know.”

  “Maybe they are in love,” she suggested, fascinated by his absolute confidence. “How would you know?”

  “I am her father,” he said roughly with an arrogant tilt to his head, that accent more distinct. “You think I do not know my own daughter? That I have been so absorbed in business that I would not recognize the change?”

  Though she’d been angry with him, and had found his tender spot, Rose recognized the troubled road between father and daughter. She sympathized with both of them. “I was engaged about that age,” she said gently.

  “But it did not last,” he prompted as another bass rolled in the lake, turning a silver side in the dark, shadowy water. “That is why you and I are here together. A good husband would have kept you happy.”

  The crickets and frogs chirped as Rose shook her head. She munched on the crusty bread Stefan had torn apart and handed to her and thought about how romance wasn’t for her.

  “What happened?” Stefan asked softly.

  A flat-shelled water turtle crawled up onto a log, half sunken in the still water, and looked at the humans. Stefan was just passing through her life; it was a moment in time that meant nothing, she told herself. There was no reason not to share with him something that happened long ago. “It seemed only natural to marry Henry. We were lifetime friends and everyone else was getting married at the time. It’s contagious, you know. He came into the store today and got paint. Henry is like a comfortable old shoe, all broken in and fitting just right. We did the engagement party thing, but as the wedding date came closer, neither one of us wanted to go through with it. Not really. We sort of got caught up in the engagement fun, the party and excitement. But he wasn’t happy and I knew it, because I wasn’t, either. So I pinned him down one night—sat on him—and we had an honest chat. He married my best friend, Shirley MacNeil. They’ve got two great kids…boys. They’re hoping for a girl next time. I am godmother to their children, and others in Waterville. I guess that’s as close as I’m going to get to motherhood.”

  Stefan’s dark brows rose. “The man you hugged so intimately? You remain friends with him?”

  “Sure. No hard feelings. It just wasn’t right between us. I can always count on Henry to help me in a tight spot.” She shrugged and munched on the cheese and meat he handed her.

  “Good old Henry, right?” Stefan said tightly as he refilled the wineglass she had just emptied. “Who was the man you leaned against as if you trusted him?”

  She eyed Stefan, considering him. They were strangers sharing a quiet moment on a lovely, peaceful evening. The wine was relaxing her after a hard week of work. “I don’t know why I shouldn’t tell you, everyone else knows. Waterville’s quiet country life will bore you soon enough and you’ll be back to the city’s society set soon. That was Larry. We were engaged for a time. He rented a motel room away from Waterville for our first—” She raised her wineglass, toasting the moment when neither could become aroused enough to make love. “Happening. It didn’t happen. End of story. He and Mary Lou are expecting their first baby. Everything turned out fine.”

  Stefan’s dark eyes cruised the body she had just spread full-length upon his blanket. He lay down, sharing the blanket, the food between them. He propped his head in one hand and placed a bit of cheese into her mouth with the other. His eyes darkened as she ate. He asked, “Why didn’t it happen?”

  “I laughed when I saw him naked for the first time. And my bony mystique seemed pretty funny to him, too. Our batteries just weren’t charged. We decided we were better suited to be friends than lovers. We used to come here, my friends and I, when we were young. We used to tell ghost stories and—I don’t know why, but the attraction just wasn’t there, not enough to…to do it, or to marry. Then there was Mike. He hadn’t been in town very long when we started dating. He was a super pitcher on the team. He was a good mechanic—could fix anything. We got engaged and then one night, I caught him tuning someone else’s engine and he left town soon after…. I’m sorry about your wife. Your mother said you loved her deeply.”

  “I still do. Claire will always be a part of my life. She lives in my daughter. She had the same straight black hair.”

  Rose studied Stefan’s broad, blunt cheekbones, that square chin, and wondered about his wife. What kind of woman could take his heart? A gentle woman? Feminine and pretty? A quiet woman, who understood? A fascinating woman, full of life? A corporate wife, all glossy and perfect? Or was she a woman like Rose’s mother—who loved and captivated every man and left them mourning her as she moved on? “Estelle will have to make up her own mind, you know. You can’t protect her from life forever.”

  “Who protects you?” he asked softly and ran a finger slowly down her cheek.

  Her skin heated at the touch and she shifted away, uneasy with a man who seemed too intimate, too soon, too foreign, too unique, too exciting—and just “too.” She looked at the clouds floating gently across the sky, just as her life seemed to be doing. “I’m way, way past that age.”

  “So old.” Humor hovered in Stefan’s deep voice.

  “Well, let’s just say I’ve settled in for the long run. No surprises, no problems—”

  She stared up at the man leaning over her, looking deeply, intimately into her eyes. “What? Is something wrong?”

  “You have given up on life as an appealing, vital woman. You are preparing for your rocking chair and shawl. Are you not aware of how enticing you are?”

  She sucked in air when she realized she’d stopped breathing. Men usually thought of her as a good friend. Stefan’s sultry gaze seemed to devour her mouth as if he wanted to kiss her. The quiver passing through her body, the raised hairs on the back of her neck, startled her.

  “Are you making a pass at me, bud?” she asked carefully, because men never flirted with her. She’d added the “bud” to keep him at a distance.

  His smile was slow and warming and mind-blowing. It was definitely not a good-buddy smile. “So blunt. I will have to adjust to your frank style of conversation. It has been a while, and perhaps I am out of practice at making my intentions known.”

  Then he placed his hands on either side of her head, studied the shape of her mouth beneath his and lowered his head. The kiss was that of a man who knew what he wanted and was confident he could obtain it. The kiss felt like a possession, a tantalizing gift and a choice. His lips were firm, yet light against hers, seeking more than demanding, exploring the shape and taste of her as if he had all the time in the world. Rose mentally rummaged for her resistance and failed. She felt herself drift away in the summer evening, tethered only by the temptation of his mouth. The dock shook…or was it her?

  When he lifted his head, his eyes were
dark and warm and yet tender. Rose slowly pushed away the sensation that she could melt into his arms and forget everything but the steamy pulsing of their bodies— She breathed carefully, studying Stefan’s dark, sultry gaze. “If…if you’re looking to start something, don’t.”

  He stroked a strand of her hair, studying the reddish shades in the dying light. “Why not?”

  She couldn’t afford to give herself again. While she had explained her love life to him as though it hadn’t affected her, the pain had been terrible. Though the decisions to break the engagements were shared, she’d been left with the sense that others moved on—like her mother—while she was left alone. She did not want to open herself again for a security that wasn’t there. Stefan was only passing through her life, testing her and playing his games. “I’ve never been a one-night stand and I don’t intend to be.”

  That warm, intimate look cooled and sizzled with anger. “You think that is what I offer you?”

  Rose pushed herself to her feet, gathered her backpack and tackle box and stood looking down at him. Stefan’s arms were behind his head. He took up too much space on the dock, and too much of Rose’s air—she was suddenly finding breathing difficult. She forced her gaze away from that wide chest and flat stomach up to his dark, sultry eyes, locking with them as he said, “You are afraid. You like to be in control of the men you take, and yourself. You fear giving away too much.”

  “I do not,” she said harshly. How could he possibly know how she had to be in control, to survive, to take care of her father and herself and the business that supported them? How could he know how much she had loved a mother, who had deserted her?

  He slanted her a disbelieving look. “You responded. You are a woman. You are alive.”

  “Oh, I hate it when you shoot out those machine-gun sentences, summing up everything to your reasoning. If you need relief, I’m not your girl.” With that she hurried away to safety, to her home. Her hands shook as she shifted her pickup, and the gears protested her careless handling.