Moonlight Man

by Judy Griffith Gill

  “Oh, pooh! Marian’s just as bad as you are. She ducked because she doesn’t want to be the next bride either. Her family has lived next door to us since she was a toddler. She followed my boys everywhere. For a while she thought she was a little boy, I’m sure, and since she grew up, she’s driven her mother to despair. There are literally dozens of men after her, but she can’t see them for apples. Don’t tell me you’re the same. I understand you’ve been alone for three years now.”

  More than that. Much more, Sharon could have said but did not. Instead, for reasons she didn’t understand but which she suspected had a lot to do with that mental image she couldn’t quite dispel, she shrugged and said, “I am seeing someone, but it’s still a very casual relationship. He’s a banker. You’d have met him today, but he’s away.” She shocked herself with the lie. She doubted very much that she’d have invited Lorne Cantrell to the wedding even if he’d been in town. It just seemed … expedient, somehow, to drag him into the conversation. He was the only man she’d dated for a long time.

  “You’re fond of this man?”

  Sharon shrugged, feeling uncomfortable. “Yes. I guess so. I mean, of course. He’s very … nice. He’s kind, gentle, and well bred.” Then she frowned. It sounded as if she were discussing a dog she’d seen for sale. “Why do you ask?”

  Zinnie smiled. “Your face doesn’t exactly light up when you speak of him. So I wondered.”

  “Maybe it’s not that kind of relationship. Yet.”

  “Of course.” Zinnie patted her hand. “But tell me more about him. If you had to describe him in a word, how would you do it?”

  She looked at Zinnie. What an odd question. After a moment’s thought, she said, “I guess I’d say quiet.”

  Zinnie shook her head, her salt-and-pepper hair dancing around her face. “Quiet? Funny, I’d have thought at your age you’d be looking for “exciting,” rather than “quiet.”

  “My age? I’m thirty-seven, Zinnie. I’ve been married.” Her face took on a pensive, unhappy cast. “I’ve had ‘excitement.’”

  “Thirty-seven is still very young, my dear, but it’s your business, of course. Now tell me, who is that utterly gorgeous golden panther of a man whom Jason kept in tow all evening? The one who followed you with his eyes.”

  Sharon pulled a wry face. Trust Zinnie to spot the way the man looked at her. “His name is Marc Duval.”

  “Oh!” Zinnie’s bright blue eyes sparkled. “Yes. Of course. He’s the one who found Jeanie and Max in that cave. I remember meeting him the day they were rescued, and naturally we wrote him a thank-you letter. But that day he’d been dressed in grimy jeans and a plaid flannel shirt with a hunting vest over it. He certainly didn’t look like he did tonight, all sophisticated elegance—suave, debonair, perfect manners, and that delicious little hint of a French accent! He’s a honey, all right. Charm right up to his beautiful eyes. They’re more golden than brown. Did you notice?”

  Did I notice? Only every time I’ve seen him. Only far too much! But Sharon was saved from having to answer as Zinnie went on:

  “Where’s he from? What do you know about him?”

  “Not much, but what I do know I don’t like. He moved onto the grounds of the old Harding place next door last summer and lives in a disreputable camper, which he parked right next to my patio wall. You must have seen it out there. Naturally, we met, or at least developed a nodding acquaintance. I didn’t learn his name until he came into the library one day to borrow some books. He has Jase completely captivated and begging me for guitar lessons now. Lessons from the great Duval, of course,” she added, her tone making it clear just how she felt about the situation.

  Zinnie raised her brows. “Well? That’s a problem?”

  Sharon sighed. “I don’t want Jason to have anything to do with”—she nearly said “him,” but changed it at the last moment—“music. I want him to be just a normal, happy little boy. I do not want him to grow up to be a musician. And Marc Duval keeps encouraging him. Why, that man is the reason Jason, and then Jeanie and Max, got lost in the first place,” she added indignantly.

  “Every night the man plays one instrument or another; his harmonica, guitar, flute, whatever, and Jason loves to hear him. When he told me he was spending the night with a friend, what he intended to do instead was sneak onto the porch swing to listen to him play. So he lied to me about where he was going and to make it look good went off down the trail and spotted that rabbit. The rest is history.”

  She sighed unhappily. “It’s my fault, I know. For his first seven years, Jason was exposed to music daily. He misses it. He even told me so, but I didn’t want to hear him.”

  She sighed again, and there was almost a sob in her voice. “I don’t want to hear Marc Duval’s music either, but I do. It was awful in the summer. I couldn’t sit outside because he was always playing something. And now … Oh, heavens! I almost forgot! He told me he’s bought the house and is moving in. And I’ve been hoping he’d be moving on!”

  Zinnie touched Sharon’s hand. “So why don’t you play for Jason if he wants to hear music so badly?” she asked gently. “It doesn’t mean he has to grow up to be a musician. But how can it hurt for him to have an appreciation of it? And you’re good, Sharon. Incredible. Today, you created a kind of magic with that harp of yours I’ve rarely heard. Your “Ode to Joy” at the end of the ceremony moved me to tears.”

  Sharon gave Zinnie a quick smile. “You,” she accused, “were in tears from the moment Roxy tripped and Harry picked her up. I think half the guests were afraid that you hated the thought of losing your son to my sister.”

  “Weddings always make me cry,” said Zinnie. “But never one like that. It was the most beautiful and poignant ceremony I’ve witnessed, all the more so because the bride and groom are so lucky to be alive, and we are so lucky to have them.” She stood, yawned, and stretched. She was ready for bed.

  “Yes. I know.”

  “So be nice to your Mr. Duval. Remember, we do have him to thank.”

  “Yes,” Sharon said, getting to her feet. “Good night, Zinnie. Sleep well.”

  Sharon paced around the house, still too keyed up to go to bed. In the darkened kitchen, she glanced out the window. Duval’s camper showed no lights. Often it did, far into the night, as if he slept as poorly as she did. She wished Zinnie hadn’t left her thinking about the man. She knew what they all owed Marc Duval. She’d known it now for nearly two months, and it didn’t make it any easier to deal with her jumbled feelings toward him.

  She left the kitchen, hoping to leave the thoughts of him behind. The living room still smelled of the cigarettes some of the guests had smoked, and her harp stood there, calling, calling, begging her to come back to it.

  “No!” she whispered, and grabbed a heavy jacket from a hook near the back door. As if the opening of her door had been a signal, the music came, soft and haunting and infinitely sad. Silent Night … Holy Night. He played his harmonica quietly, but all was not calm, not in Sharon’s heart. It pounded as she listened to the melancholy sounds. How could a carol of joy be played with such infinite sadness?

  Suddenly, tears flooded her eyes and she felt them running cold down her face. She clenched her fists in her pockets, hunched her shoulders, and let the music wash over her, tear into her, cut her heart to ribbons.

  “Don’t!” she said harshly, and the music came to a discordant stop. “Oh, Lord, please stop it!” She realized that she was standing before Marc Duval and had no idea how she had gotten there. He had come to his feet, had shoved his harmonica into the pocket of his leather jacket, and was staring at her. “Don’t!” she cried again, her voice breaking. “I can’t bear it another minute! Just stop torturing me, Duval! Stop!”

  Chapter Two

  “WHAT IS IT?” Marc demanded. “What’s wrong, Sharon?” He’d never called her by her first name, except in the conversations he made up in his head. It felt so good, he said it again with all the tenderness she evoked in him. “
Sharon …” He reached out to touch one of the silver streaks tracking down her face. “Don’t cry, little Sharon.” Lord, but she was lovely by moonlight, even weeping, even angry she stirred his soul.

  She gasped and flinched at his touch as if he had slapped her. Jumping back, she tripped on the edge of the concrete pad the camper sat on. She would have fallen, but he caught her around the waist and drew her hard against him.

  Sharon trembled at the contact, holding herself stiffly, waiting for him to let her go. He did not, but instead lifted his hand again and wiped the tears from her cheek, making her heart pound at the feel of him against her, at the shocking eroticism of his rough, callused palm on her cheek. Unable to stop herself, she leaned into it just a little, turned her head a fraction of an inch, seeking the contact.

  “Don’t!” she said brokenly, her gaze pleading.

  “Don’t what? Don’t touch your skin, even though your eyes beg me to do it? Don’t play Christmas music because it makes you sad and lonely? I was feeling that way, too, Sharon.” He paused, as if considering just what he should say. “We’re both so alone! But if we were … friends, then neither of us would have to feel that way again.”

  “Friends?” She tipped her head back and stared at him intently. “We can’t be friends!”

  He lifted his brows so they disappeared under the front of his moon-gilded hair. “Why not?”

  Her voice trembled. “Because you won’t leave me alone! You come to the library all the time and talk to me, make me—” Make her what, she didn’t say, but he could guess. He knew what she made him feel and was certain it was the same for her. “You won’t stop playing your instruments outside my house,” she went on, “and you are driving me to distraction! Music, music, music, all day long and half the night! It isn’t fair! I just wish you had never come here! I wish you would go away! You have no right to disturb my life like this! You are—” She broke off abruptly, her eyes filling with terror as she struggled in his gentle hold, her breath rasping in and out.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said, sounding panic-stricken. “I … Just let me go, Mr. Duval. I’ll go home. I shouldn’t have come. I’ll just go inside, and I won’t have to hear you play and—”

  “Now I know,” he said softly, interrupting her staccato speech. “Now I know why you dislike me so much.”

  His words quelled her panic, but she still needed her freedom from him, space in which to breathe. She placed her hands against the thick woolen sweater that covered his chest, thinking sourly that he might clean up nicely, but he sure didn’t stay that way any longer than he had to. She pushed, but it was like shoving against a cliff. “I … I never said I disliked you, Mr. Duval. Let me go now, please. I won’t bother you again.”

  He didn’t let her go, but slipped his other arm behind her, and leaned back against the metal wall of the camper. “You bother me all the time, Sharon Leslie, and you didn’t have to tell me that you don’t like me. It’s there every time we meet, blazing from your eyes. It’s the music, isn’t it? It reminds you too much of what you gave up.”

  “No! Of course not! I never gave up anything! Or, if I did, I did it because I wanted to. Music nearly ruined my life, my children’s lives. I don’t want it anymore!”

  “Do you hate all musicians because you’re a failed one yourself?” He ignored her gasp of indignation and went on. “If that’s the case, you have no need to hate me. I’m not a real musician. I’m only an amateur.” If making her angry or indignant, even hurting her a little was the way through that wall, then he would take it. Inside, part of him rejoiced that she had come to him, even if only to beg him to stop torturing her with music.

  He didn’t yet understand how music could be a torture to her of all people, although he could see that it was. Since he’d come, he supposed, every time he had sat outside and played quietly to keep himself company, her suffering had grown stronger. Those tears had been genuine, her anguish deep and real. But why? And why had she stopped composing? Why had she stopped playing? The glory she had wrung from that harp earlier had enchanted him totally, filled him with wonder. She was so talented! He knew that in spite of what he had said, she was no failed musician, but what he needed to know was why she had given it up.

  He didn’t think she was likely to tell him then, so he gently eased his arms away from her, setting her free. “I’ll stop playing where you can hear me if it bothers you so much, Sharon.”

  “I … thank you. I apologize for my rudeness. I should have just gone inside and shut the door so I couldn’t hear. It was wrong of me to come over here.”

  “You’re welcome here anytime. As are your children.”

  “My children.” Her eyes flew to his face, suddenly fiercely defiant and startlingly bright. “Just remember, Mr. Duval, that they are my children. I don’t want you to offer Jason guitar lessons. I don’t want you to encourage him to take an interest in music. I want him and Roxanne to grow up knowing that there are other things in life as important as music … more important. Much more!”

  “Nothing was more important to you for most of your life, Sharon. Why do you deny your son his enjoyment of it? If you don’t want him to come to like my kind of music, why don’t you give him yours, which is far superior?”

  “Why don’t you mind your own damned business!” she said, and then bit her lip and dropped her head, stepping back slightly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Duval. That was rude.” She looked at him again, all defiance gone. “Listen, all I’m asking is that you leave my son alone. Please try to understand that he’s at a very vulnerable stage of his development. He needs a man to look up to, and you’re not the kind of man I want him to emulate.”

  He frowned. Did she know about him? He shook his head. How could she? No! There was simply no way! “Why not?” he asked, picking up the conversation.

  “Well … because you’re a … drifter. A wanderer. You’ve told Jason about all the places you’ve stayed, a few days here, a few weeks there, and now you’re here. For a while.”

  “I’ve been here longer than anyplace else,” he pointed out.

  “And when spring comes, you’ll be on your way again. I don’t want him to come to … rely on you.”

  “Would you deny your son friendship because he might not keep it forever? Is that why you deny yourself love?”

  “What?” Her black eyes shone with deep lights as they opened wide and caught the moonlight. “What gives you the right to make such an assumption about me?”

  “Your actions, Ms. Leslie. Your attitudes.”

  “Who are you to speak of ‘attitudes’? And we were discussing my son, not me, his friendships and needs, not mine.”

  “So what kind of a man do you want to set an example for your son? That tight-faced banker I’ve seen you with?”

  “Why not? He’s a good man. Kind, steady, leads a settled life. He’s—” Safe, she had been going to say, but he broke into her brief hesitation before she could come up with the word.

  “He’s what? Dull? Boring?”

  She looked away from him. There was nothing she could say, really. Lorne Cantrell was dull and boring, but he was also what she was looking for: someone who would never be able to hurt her. She knew that she wasn’t risking hurt with him because she could make no real emotional commitment. However, she didn’t care about that. She might, in time, be able to make a practical commitment to him. She could be a part-time mother to his children. She would learn to care for them. He could be a full-time father to hers. They would come to like him, and to get along with his children. What she had to look for was security, calm—a serene, quiet atmosphere in which to raise her kids. No ups, no downs, just nice, level, even-paced family living.

  “Do you want dull, Sharon? Do you want boring? Or do you want this,” Marc said, his voice a low growl as he pulled her into his arms again. “I can see it in your eyes, Sharon, how you want me. I can feel it in the tension of your body whenever I come and stand by your desk in the library, or st
and in line behind you at the post office. I can hear it in your breathing right now. You want me. I know that because I want you, too, and someday, you are going to admit it freely.”

  “No!” she said, but when his mouth came slowly toward hers, she did not turn her head away. She stared at him, mesmerized, until his lips brushed over hers, back and forth, until need and curiosity overcame caution and her own parted so she could taste and feel him with the tip of her tongue. Then her eyes fell closed as her body grew heavy and warm, curling toward his like a flower to the sun.

  Her breasts pressed against the hardness of his chest and swelled with an aching need for even greater closeness. A deep, silent part of her cried out with exhilaration at the worship she sensed in his touch, in celebration he unzipped her jacket and slid his arms inside it, molding her shape with his big hands. It had been so long since she had felt like a real woman, a woman who might be able to satisfy a man. And something told her that this time, she could. She yearned to have his hands on her bare skin, all over her, touching, stroking, arousing. Oh, heavens, but he felt good against her, hard and big and masculine! She shoved her cold hands inside his leather jacket, into his warmth. He smelled wonderful, the way a man should, and tasted incredible, of oranges and mint. She let her head fall back against his hand as it came from inside her jacket and rose to slide through her hair.

  At once something turbulent, too long pent up, was unleashed in both of them, and they both met it without hesitation.

  She moved against him, reveling in the solidity of his frame. Oh, Lord, she thought dimly, I’ve needed this man for so long! And then she no longer thought but simply gave herself up to the pleasures she and Marc Duval were drawing from each other, creating in each other, building together.

  Her hair was like black silk as it slid through his fingers. Marc took all the sweetness her mouth offered, accepting the tentative little forays her tongue made against his own, then groaning as she became emboldened and moved deeper into his embrace, her mouth hungry and demanding under his. She clung to him, her hands clenching in his hair as if to pull him deep inside her skin. He strained to get closer, closer, but it could never be close enough, not like this, fully clothed, standing outside under a Christmas moon.