“Not you. But your people. At the market, selling things with your…” He motioned toward his head.
“Our what?”
“Those hats.” He stopped pruning to look at her. “Why do you not wear one?”
One guilty hand flew to the top of her head, where her bonnet should be. Her gaze slid to the sliced-up fence, beside which it currently sat. “Oh. I…” She swallowed, hating the truth but unwilling to lie for something so silly. “I don’t like how the covering looks. How I look with it on. I leave it up there.” So you won’t see me in it.
One side of his mouth curled up before he reached for his vine in that affectionate way of his, taking whatever secret satisfaction he’d gleaned with him. “So, you work at the market?”
“Not anymore.”
“No?”
“Banned from market duty,” she said dramatically to cover up how much that had hurt.
“Why?”
“Too friendly with the customers.”
“That seems…counterproductive. One hopes for friendly salespeople.” He paused. “Especially in America, where the smile is king.”
“People don’t smile in…”
“France,” he said, with that low, rolling sound that made her feel…warm. Curious. Itchy in places. “No. People don’t smile.”
“Ever?”
His lips turned down, and she could see how the no-smiling rule was well followed.
“You don’t smile,” she said.
He stopped pruning so abruptly that Abby almost ran right into him. “No?”
Shaking her head, she looked at his face and mirrored his frown before saying a purse-lipped, “Non,” in imitation of his accent.
And there, miracle of miracles, the man did it. His lips curved up. Or almost. One side of his mouth lifted—the side with the scar—and, oh goodness, it was a dimple. What kind of trick was it that this big, burly man had to suffer through the indignity of a dimple? And much, much worse was her having to suffer through that smile.
She wanted to touch it, the divot in his cheek. Or those lips, or that thick, rough-looking neck, which was more cleanly shaven than the first time she’d come here.
Did he do that for me? she wondered as she turned away, reaching for…anything to stop herself. Branches. Those would do. Pull, throw, wait—red face averted—and move on.
They’d finished the row without speaking and moved on to the next by the time Abby could breathe normally. Surprise, surprise, he was the one to finally break the silence.
“Besides no cap, what else do you wish for?”
She didn’t hesitate before saying, “A place of my own.”
“Yes?”
“Nothing big, just a…a room. Where I could listen to music, maybe?”
“You can’t do that there?”
“Oh, we sing all right. Best part of the Church is the singing.”
“What do you sing?”
“Hymns.”
“I don’t know any.”
Without thinking it through, she sang a verse from one of her favorites. “All things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small, all things wise and wonderful: the Lord God made them all.”
When she met his eye, Luc was…not exactly smiling, but close. His eyes were warm, his expression…admiring, maybe? Abby blushed with the realization of what she’d just done.
He said one word: “Pretty.” But something about the way he said it, his eyes eating up her face, made her cheeks burn hotter and breath come faster. To hide it, she turned quickly back to work.
Changing the topic, she cleared her throat and asked, “So, how much is a place to rent?”
“What?”
“A room to live in. How much money do I need for that?”
He shrugged. “Depends. Big cities, it’s a lot, I think. Around here? I don’t know. Maybe a few hundred a month?”
“Good Lord, that’s a lot.”
“Life is expensive.” He shrugged and cut, the movement lifting shoulders massive enough to carry the weight of the world.
“Right. So…you have to pay for food, right? And what else do you pay for?”
“Electricity. Um, water and gas, things like that.”
“Gas for the car?”
“For your car and for your stove or heat.”
“Oh. So…I’d need a lot. To start a life.”
“A good amount, yes. You need to pay a guarantee as well, I think, if it’s like France. And references for the landlord.” He glanced at her. “This makes you unhappy?”
“Guess I thought…I thought I could work for you for a couple weeks and have enough to start a life.”
“It’s hard, Abby.” His eyes on her were steady and full of a new softness that she wasn’t entirely comfortable with, like he’d taken off a layer of her skin to speak to her insides.
“Blue jeans, too,” she said, forcing a touch of flippancy to her tone.
“What?”
“Jeans. I’d like to wear jeans with snaps and a zipper, like a normal person.”
“Like a slim?” The word came out with two Es in the middle: sleem. She shook her head, not understanding. “Um, skinny jeans?” he clarified.
“Goodness, no!” She laughed. “I’d need time to adjust to just trousers first, but…” Letting her gaze rest on the valley before them, she thought of the hundreds—no, thousands—of women who walked around every day wearing practical clothing instead of these stiff cotton skirts and modest drawers she had to fight her way out of. “I’d like to look normal when I go into town, to feel free. Just a T-shirt and jeans. Those sneaker shoes to walk in. Maybe some—”
She stopped, hating how her current thought embarrassed her. It wasn’t the wish so much as the fantasy surrounding it.
“Some?”
“Boots. Cowboy boots, you know? The kind you stomp around in.” Except stomping wasn’t what she envisioned when she said it. In her mind’s eye, she pictured herself in jeans by all rights tighter than she should want to wear them; a cute shirt—maybe something sparkly, but not too fancy, since part of her just wanted a plain T-shirt; and those boots with their small heels and slightly pointed toes. And all of this dancing on the arm of a man. This man, truth be told. It was this man in her fantasy, which sent a new wash of heat prickling against the cold air, from her chest to her forehead and well into her hairline.
“I can’t imagine you stomping.”
“No? I’d be good at it.”
Their eyes met as he said, “I don’t doubt it.” The words, silly and inconsequential as they were, sent blood rushing right down her body to where it didn’t belong. Somehow that blood weighed her down, made her lids heavy, and sent her mouth to drooping in a way she was sure he could see.
And then she knew he could, because his eyes strayed there, lingering before one thick, rough-hewn hand followed. A single knuckle swiped her bottom lip in a gesture not so much affectionate as…curious? Compulsive? Like a baby who couldn’t help but touch a ball or stuff it in his mouth. To taste. To feel. To know.
It was over too soon, that swipe. And yet, somehow, it lasted forever. Suspended here on the mountain, in their thick cloud of burning vine and sparks, the cold melted away by more than just the fire.
After that long hitch in time, Abby inhaled and let the air out in hiccups—the shaky kind you couldn’t help making after a good, hard sob. But rather than the release of a big cry, his knuckle to her lip screwed everything up tight, made her insides overflow with whatever this was. She was sure she’d pop. She had to.
Because Lord only knew what she’d do if this pressure didn’t release sometime soon.
6
Luc was a complete and total idiot. He’d seen that lip, poking out all pink and lush and sweet. In a trance, he’d let himself touch it, had watched his hand as if
it hadn’t even been his decision.
As they approached the end of the last row of the day, things awkward now that he’d gone and touched her, he wanted her in a way he couldn’t control.
It felt so terribly wrong.
“What is it you do up there? In the barn?” she asked, breaking into his tortured thoughts.
“Nothing.”
“Oh. I thought…I thought maybe you made wine with your grapes.”
“Not really.”
She looked unhappy at that answer, blinking away what might have been hurt. He’d said something wrong, as usual.
With a sigh, he explained, “I’m not a winemaker.”
“You’re not?”
“No. I’m a grape farmer.”
She squinted at him and said, “It all looks to be in real good shape.”
He shrugged. “I like to work on things.”
“Machines and stuff? Like that tractor I’ve seen you tinkering with?”
“I enjoy making things work. The tractor gives me problems.”
“I know someone who could fix it.” She nodded slowly. Her body worked efficiently, which he couldn’t help but admire. “What are you growing all these grapes for, if not for making wine?”
“I sell them. To wineries.”
“Is there a lot of money in that?”
“Enough,” he lied.
“But there’s more in winemaking?”
“Yes,” he conceded. “Not just making the wine, but selling to…a group of people. Wine clubs, they call it.”
“How’s that work?”
“People sign up to receive a few bottles at a time, regular shipments throughout the year.”
“So, what? You’d send it out to them? Or they’d come pick it up?”
“Either. It’s a very American thing. We don’t do this in France.”
“Did you make wine in France?”
“No,” he said with finality. “I’m a farmer.”
But, of course, she pressed on. “What if you did make wine? What if you did one of those clubs? That would be a big deal, right?”
“My wine is no good.”
“Wait. You do make wine?”
He shrugged casually, a sudden tightness in his belly. Why had he let that escape?
“Not really.”
“But you know how.” She paused, eyes too intense on him. “You have made wine.”
“I’ve…experimented. Not to sell. Just for fun.”
She didn’t immediately answer, leaving him scraped raw in the silence. He hated the doubt she’d stirred up, resented her for stirring it. Everything had been fine until she’d shown up and picked at his scab. In fact, there’d been barely a scar before she’d come here. She’d gone and destroyed his calm.
“This thing used to happen at the market with our customers,” she said. “Especially with the cinnamon buns, ’cause people were crazy for those things, but I’ve seen it happen with anything. You’d get down to two or three of something, and suddenly, customers would just about tear each other up to get it. Some days, I swear we could have charged five times the price for one of those last buns.”
He didn’t think he liked where she was going with this, but he kept silent.
“Seen tons of folks heading to the other wineries in the area. All kinds of people down from the city, limousines and big buses, too. You could do that, couldn’t you? Make your wine and—”
“I’m not a winemaker, Abby.” He stopped and turned, abruptly enough to startle her. “Come. We need to finish.”
He hoped his irritation would fade away, but instead it built over the next few plants, leaving him fidgety and inefficient. They should have been done with this section by now. Instead, they’d only gotten through about two-thirds. Dammit.
It was almost a relief when a fat drop landed on his cheek.
“Rain,” he grunted. He met her eye for the first time since they’d spoken and found her…sad. She looked sad. Putain, that was the last thing he needed.
“It’s time to go.”
“Now?”
“It’s raining.”
After a moment of hesitation, she pulled off one glove and the other, her eyes knowing and compassionate.
“Good-bye, Luc.”
She started to turn away, and instead of relief, he felt something frantic climb up his throat, pushing him to reach out and grab her. His hand landed on her elbow, and she froze. They both did, eyes locked where his hand held her. Slowly, his gaze rose to meet hers, expecting fear, disgust.
What he saw instead were big, black pupils swallowing up her irises, that unbelievable mouth pursed and slightly open, her bottom lip lusher than the ripest cluster of grapes. Suddenly he had to taste it. Had to. Instead of loosening his grip and letting her go, he tightened it and pulled.
She didn’t resist, even for a second. He wondered if that was good or bad before letting his other hand—the one with blank space where there’d once been a finger—grasp the side of her face and pull it toward his.
You cannot do this.
With a pained huff—hers or his, he wasn’t sure—he removed his hands, although he couldn’t make himself step away. She’d have to do that.
“Go,” he whispered.
But she didn’t. She shook her head, eyeing his mouth like… Hell. Probably exactly the way he’d looked at hers—like she wanted to eat it.
Quiet surrounded them, but here, in the space between their bodies, their breathing was a hailstorm, her exhalations loud enough to heat his face and tighten his groin.
She swallowed and leaned in to whisper, “What were you gonna do?” The voice sounded nothing like hers. It was tight and hoarse, older than her twentysomething years.
“No idea. Keep you here.” Slowly, as gently as his body knew how, he leaned in and nudged her nose with his. Her gasp felt like an invitation, and he took it. Up and back down the other side, until their mouths lined up and sweat broke out across his back and he wondered what in the hell had come over him.
She was the one, though, who finally pressed her lips to his. They were as soft as he’d imagined, but also solid, as if she were more real than he’d realized. Stronger. Just lips, dry and cold, the feel of them sensuous after more than two years without. When she didn’t move, he did it for her, pursing and waiting for her to do the same. She didn’t, and he shifted away. Did she not want this? Had he misread it?
Oh, but no. Not with that look in her eyes, all vague and heavy-lidded. That flush across her cheeks hadn’t been there before, had it? And that expression? What would you call that look?
Dazed. She appeared dazed. He was about to step away, about to give her space, when she whispered, “I… I don’t know what to do.”
God, he wanted to show her. Badly, desperately. Somehow, that single touch of their lips had been the hottest kiss of his life. And it hadn’t even been a kiss, had it? Not a real one. Nothing but that brief brush of skin to dry skin, so small in such a wide-open space.
Luc couldn’t blink the haze away.
What the hell was it about this woman that made him like this?
Okay, stupid question, he thought as he took her in. Funny, though, that it wasn’t the usual things that attracted him to her. It was something else entirely. Considering the way she watched him—tense or expectant—maybe he’d underestimated the lust hiding beneath that drab dress.
It was the thought of the dress that finally snapped him out of it.
This wasn’t someone whose mouth you shoved your tongue into. This wasn’t a woman you had passionate sex with.
He stepped back, pulling himself away, and turned his face to the side.
“You have to go.”
“I don’t—”
“Go, Abby.” She looked so hurt. Had she been another kind of woman, she
might have realized that it wasn’t because he didn’t want her—quite the opposite.
“I thought we could—”
“No. You need to go.”
She nodded, head down, shoulders bowed. This wasn’t the woman to play around with, and he certainly had no intention of being her gateway to temptation or earthly pleasure or whatever he was to her.
After she’d taken a few steps up the slope, she turned and said, “I won’t see you tomorrow. We’re one short for the market, so, much to Isaiah’s annoyance, I’ve got to fill in.”
He nodded and waved good-bye, wondering if this was a lie—her way of saving face, maybe.
The funny part was that he bet he’d suffer the most from cutting it off. Because while she may be experimenting or sowing her wild oats or whatever, he was on his own, stewing in the mess she’d leave behind.
He didn’t watch her stomp up the hill with Le Dog by her side. Instead, he turned to clip listlessly at his vines. But once he was sure she’d made it to the crest, he turned and caught sight of her getting down on hands and knees to crawl through the fence. The animal, who appeared to enjoy the game, followed her progress with high, curious ears, his tail a wagging blur.
She’d cut through, hadn’t she? Why hadn’t it occurred to him before? The cult people hadn’t sent her. In fact, now, he’d bet they had no idea she was coming here. To him.
He gave her a few more minutes before heading up the hill to where Le Dog stood by that tear in the fence. It was tiny and jagged. How had she not cut herself on those edges?
And wouldn’t they catch her sooner or later?
* * *
The air on this mountain was too thin for Abby. She trembled as she made her way home, rain and wind battering hard at a body that felt anchored to nothing, flyaway and unsure, as the clouds scuttled madly across the darkening sky.
Breathless, she arrived beside Isaiah’s cabin, unaware of how she’d gotten there so fast.
The door opened, and Mama looked out, as if she’d been waiting.
Abby blinked at how crisp everything was, especially Mama, whose bright eyes were almost blinding.
“Heavens, what’s got you so worked up?”
How on earth could her mother tell from a single look?
In His Hands Page 7
