by Cait London
Everett lurched to his feet, the rocking chair he had vacated continued rocking and creaking. “Go away. The whole town is gossiping about how you were involved with Lauren’s death, yet you have the nerve to—”
Mitchell heard a warning trigger cock inside him. He stood slowly, facing Everett. “I had nothing to do with that.”
Everett’s fists clenched at his sides. “I was wrong to leave Uma when the baby was due, and wrong to be gone so much after Christina died. I understood how empty she felt later, how when her father had a heart attack she wanted to stay here—and I made a bad mistake. But I always knew that Uma and I were meant for each other. She knows it, too. With her father away, I’ll take care of her. You’re not wanted here.”
“Let her tell me that.”
“Don’t you get it? She feels sorry for you,” Everett shot back, as Roman’s motorcycle purred to the sidewalk and Dani hopped off. Holding a small sack, she raced up the sidewalk and the steps.
“She’s out of brown sugar and eggs. Mom sent some over,” Dani panted as she glanced at the two men, facing each other. “Hi, Rosy,” she said, bending to scratch the pig’s head. She hurried into the house, and after nodding at the men, Roman looked up, suddenly interested in the stars.
Everett’s temper showed in the vein in his temple, and Mitchell knew his wasn’t far behind. Both men smiled tightly at Dani as she eased back out between them and hopped on Roman’s bike.
With a look that said Mitchell would have to handle his own hot-tempered woman problems and his mistakes, Roman eased the bike into the darkness.
“You’re leaving,” Everett said tightly, his fists balled at his sides. “Now.”
“Am I?” Mitchell smiled just enough to show that he wasn’t going anywhere until he was ready, until he’d had his say with Uma—to tell her that he’d try not to act so hard-nosed about his private life, but that it was his own.
He watched Everett draw back his fist, prepared to block it—and then saw Uma peering through the lace at window.
Mitchell took the punch and knew he deserved it as he held Rosy’s leash. He also hoped it would buy him some time with Uma. In bargaining negotiations, a loss could mean a good gain.
The connection stunned at first, and Mitchell allowed himself to waver just enough, before crumpling to the porch. He moved aside slightly because Rosy was rooting for more crumbs close to his face.
Uma was outside and Everett was hurriedly explaining—“Uma, I didn’t hit him hard enough to—”
“You can help me get him into the house and then you must leave, Everett,” she ordered primly.
Certain that his sacrifice had won him the prize—a few moments with Uma—Mitchell forced his pleased smile into an aching groan.
“I thought you might be pruning roses—when you’re like this,” Mitchell said warily as he sat in Uma’s kitchen with a washcloth filled with ice cubes on his jaw.
“Like this?” she challenged instantly. She was still angry with him, and because she wasn’t a vengeful kind of woman and because Mitchell had changed her, Uma frowned at him. Whatever Mitchell stirred in her, she wasn’t on the outside of life looking in—she was in the center of the storm and enjoying the battle.
“Looks like you’re working out a problem.”
“I am. A big one—you.” She had a computer full of work, a newspaper column due, stacks of paperwork, and because of Mitchell, she was baking fruitcake.
Several men in Madrid had chosen today to make themselves perfectly horrible. There was Mitchell’s “Get out,” and Everett’s firm argument that she needed his protection, and then there was Walter.
Pearl’s husband had decided that Uma needed his studly service—since it was apparently obvious to the entire town of Madrid that her years of abstaining from sex had ended.
Uma tore open a carton of mixed candied fruit and plopped it into a bowl, jabbing it with a wooden spoon. She’d managed for years to be retiring, helpful, and non-combative. Now she felt like taking up a sword and shield and issuing a Valkyrie call to announce that Mitchell had ended a sexual fast she didn’t even know she’d had. She had two choices: to explore the new Uma…or not. Who was she?
After seeing her this morning, running back to her house and crying and wearing Mitchell’s too-large clothing, the neighbors had quickly spread the gossip. They had added, of course, that Mitchell’s former “painted woman” had come to claim him and that was what had hurt Uma after spending the night with him.
Edgar MacDougal, in his nightly rose-watering chore, had seen her enter Mitchell’s house last night. As she had gathered her fruitcake makings throughout town, Uma had heard the whispers, and Pearl hadn’t been quiet in the grocery store—launching into “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Uma Lawrence Thornton. You should have remarried Everett a long time ago.”
Uma still felt Walter’s breath on her neck, the way he’d reached around her, fumbling for her breast.
She shuddered to think of him touching her. Telling Pearl wasn’t an option; Pearl wouldn’t believe that Walter could be anything but perfect and she’d be terribly unraveled. Uma couldn’t bear to hurt Pearl, but the kick in Walter’s privates had served him notice.
Mitchell quickly noted her shudder of revulsion. “Did I do that, make you feel badly about last night? Look, Uma,” he began earnestly. “I was wrong about Tessa this morning—”
Uma bent to crumble a baked fruitcake onto a plate for Rosy. The sight of Mitchell, injured and lying on her front porch, flashed through her again. She’d wanted to hold him and soothe him and—of course he would have none of that, because he was a big, strong macho man who managed his life without her. Get out. “Of course you were. She came to help you, and—and what are you doing with Rosy? Is something wrong with Kitty and Bernard?”
“I’m babysitting. Look, Uma, there are just some things that—”
“I know. You’re like your father, exactly like him, in dealing with relationships. You just slam doors shut on people who are trying to help. Do you think I try to meddle in everyone’s lives, Mitchell? Do you think for one minute that if you didn’t matter to me, I would ask Tessa to explain something that hurts her so deeply? Do you think I’d put you both through that if I didn’t think it would help you?”
Uma bent to scratch Rosy’s ears and adjust her big pink bow. The pig danced warily and Mitchell bent to place his big hand on her bristly back, murmuring to her. She quieted instantly.
Uma remembered the certainty, the safety in Mitchell’s hands, the delight and the ecstasy of consuming and being consumed totally.
Get out.
She would be in control, even if her heart was breaking. Get out. “Nice, Rosy. Nice girl. Now, why did you say you were babysitting Rosy?”
“I didn’t,” he snapped.
Uma knew the moment was critical, and that Mitchell had to be handled delicately, firmly. She needed a moment to think, to remove herself from the situation in which she might pick up a gob of fruitcake batter and throw it at him. She pushed that notion away—Mitchell had made her lose control during lovemaking and today at the garage. She would regain her composure and revenge wasn’t for her—or rather, it hadn’t been, until Mitchell entered her life.
He did know how to push her over edges she didn’t realize she had. “Let me just go turn on the cartoons for Rosy. Come along, Rosy.”
Settling Rosy in front of the television gave Uma time to think. Clearly, Mitchell was brooding over how to approach her. It mattered to her that he gave grave thought to a foray into words and action with her. Mitchell wasn’t the kind of man to spend much time negotiating verbal land mines, but apparently, he would try with her.
She gave him one redemption point.
When she returned to the kitchen, Uma decided to help him say what he must to feel better. “I know you’ve been single a long time, and independent. And I’ve always lived with someone. First my father, and then Everett, and after my father’s heart attack, this li
ving arrangement was convenient, while I sorted out my life. I’ve decided to get my own house and move out.”
At that, Mitchell’s expression hardened. “Oh, no, you’re not.”
Uma didn’t like his tone. She crossed her arms and watched Mitchell come to his feet. “And why not, may I ask?”
Mitchell frowned at her and slammed the washcloth onto the table; ice cubes scattered and fell to the floor. “One of the things I came over here to tell you is that I should have handled you a little better, especially after last night.”
Get out. The words speared her again. “When I am certain that Everett’s punch did not hurt you too badly, I am going to ask you to leave…nicely, if possible.”
Uma didn’t like her emotional display this morning. She wanted more than anything to have Mitchell hold her in that safe way.
“Everett would tell me that everything is going to be just fine.”
“I won’t.” Mitchell stood and looked around the clutter of recipe books torn from the shelf, the empty egg cartons, the cracked egg shells, a visible matrix of if she was right and Mitchell was wrong, or if Mitchell was wrong and she was right to be upset.
Mitchell was wrong—dead wrong. All she had to do was to understand this new volatile Uma.
He stood there, huge and powerful and smelling like a freshly shaved lime, one of her favorite citrus flavors. He’d obviously dressed with care, the summer shirt expensive and probably a holdover from his office days, when he was in charge. She was in charge in her own kitchen. His shoes, definitely not small town, were polished to a high gloss. Italian, probably. Which said he did not fit in her life zone.
He did not fit in her kitchen, or in her town, but he fit perfectly in her arms and very perfectly within her body.
But not in her life. She hadn’t done anything wrong, and Mitchell had shut the emotional door on her.
He moved toward her and Uma trembled. She wanted to hold him, yet pride said she was right and he had to make the distance, accept that she’d invited Tessa because she cared for him, and couldn’t bear him thinking that he was responsible for Fred’s death.
In defense of Mitchell coming closer, she held up the dripping egg whip in front of her. A long, slimy ooze slid to his shoes and Mitchell didn’t look down. Instead, that honey-brown gaze caressed her face. “What’s this all about?”
“What? What?” she asked desperately, as she fought the need to move into his arms.
“This. Thinking of moving out, all the cakes, all the bowls out of the—” He scanned the cluttered kitchen. “It looks like you’ve used every spoon in the place.”
“I didn’t have time to wash them. I was busy baking. You have to move fast when making fruitcake.” She leaned back as Mitchell placed his hands on the countertop beside her hips. “It takes time to chop nuts and put them exactly so on the cakes, and—”
He sniffed lightly. “Uma, dear heart. Have you been nipping at the rum?”
“Of course not. That’s for the fruitcakes.” But, furious with Mitchell, she had taken just a sip.
He leaned closer, staring at her lips. “You look all flushed and warm and cute. You used to pout like that when you were a child. Except now, it’s very sexy.”
She couldn’t breathe, yet she had to defend herself; Mitchell could not be allowed to—“Tell me why you’re here.”
Mitchell seemed to go inside himself, searching for answers. She waited, and it only seemed natural to ease away the toilet paper scraps he’d used after shaving. She wasn’t the only one upset, and that helped raise her spirits. “The bottom line, Mitchell. Tell me what matters to you and we’ll go from there.”
“I want you,” he said slowly, his expression wary. “I make mistakes. I’ve been married, but I know that I never gave any part of myself to Serene. I read The Smooth Moves List this afternoon—that book you recommended to Lonny—and there is a chapter in there about Single City…about sharing parts of yourself in a relationship, or choosing to stay independent of the other person, despite being in a relationship. Pretty confusing, deep stuff, the kind a woman would understand and not a man. I don’t know that I can do that, but I want you in my life more than I’ve ever wanted anything. The bottom-line question is, do you want the same thing—do you want me in your life? At least, for right now?”
She knew what this admission, this revealing of his private thoughts and needs, was costing Mitchell. His earnest expression warned her to be very careful of her words. She could only express her needs in familiar language: “A relationship, once crumbled, is like a cookie. It can never be put back together and a new cookie must be made.”
She didn’t understand Mitchell’s indulgent smile. Then his expression changed to sincerity, his voice deep and quiet. “I can’t hand you everything. I’m not made like that. I’m pretty much the way I am. But I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry for that, Uma.”
She couldn’t resist framing his face with her hands. His skin was warm and rough and familiar, the bones strong beneath her hands, as blunt and stark as the man. The shadows he bore lay within the lines, that fierce frown shielding his wariness. Once, he hadn’t liked her to touch him, and now she could feel his pain, the ache within him.
“You’re special and thoughtful, Mitchell. You’ve done wonderful things in your life, taking care of Roman and building a life, and then having the courage to come back to so much pain and open it, trying to see inside yourself. Few people would do that, especially in an unfriendly town.”
He turned slightly to kiss her hands and his lips came away with a dusting of flour. “Think so?”
Uma ran her finger over his lips and smiled at his uncertainty; Mitchell, when he wasn’t locked inside his shield, was definitely appealing and sweet. “See? We’re relating. That’s not so hard, is it?”
“I want you,” he repeated. There was no uncertainty in that vibrating, raw, honest statement, or in the hard length of his body pressing against hers. His thumbs lightly caressed her hips.
Uma closed her eyes and inhaled his scent, familiar and tender and safe. She gave herself to the light, warm searching of his lips across hers and pushed the ugliness that was Walter away. On the cusp of desire, held by hunger and pride, she returned the light nibbling kisses and allowed herself to float in the sweetness.
There were peaks and valleys in a relationship with a man like Mitchell, and an excitement she craved. Dealing with Mitchell wasn’t peace and harmony, but worth the ride…he was a man of textures and depth and consideration. He’d come to her because she mattered enough for him to leave his shell. Sex was a part of what he needed, but the fierce tenderness in his expression said it was only a bit of something greater.
But then sex was the bond to their tenuous contract now, Uma needing that riveting fulfillment as much as he did.
She smoothed Mitchell’s tense shoulders, nestled close to him, and knew that he wouldn’t touch her until—
“I want you, too,” she whispered against his throat.
Mitchell held very still, and then his arms were tight around her, his mouth hot and searching and giving everything.
“Uma, I—” he whispered roughly as his hand found her breasts, smoothed them, then slid down to come up inside her shirt. Framed by her hands, his face was suddenly warm, honed by desire, almost arrogantly male.
He needed her desperately, honestly, and she knew that he did not expose his needs easily—nor did she. Yet she needed this rawness, this honesty between them, clearing away damage that words could do. She needed him locked with her, deep within and pounding with her through the fiery path where nothing else mattered.
In a flurry of hands and kisses and caresses, Uma’s shirt flew away with her bra, and Mitchell’s shirt came free to her searching hands, her tongue tasting him, teeth nibbling.
She was strong and free and happy, Mitchell’s volatile reaction to her every move an inducement for another. The deep, rich sounds of hunger drew her on, erotic and enticing as his face pr
essed against her breasts, the heat and roughness of his skin sensitizing hers.
The tug of his lips on her breast heated every cord in her body, straight downward until it gathered and smoldered and tightened. The connect was immediate, unexpected, and stunning, riveting her in waves of heat. She didn’t have time to apply logic and consider that her body had been revved since last night, needing Mitchell’s.
She didn’t have time to consider feminine foreplay and reassuring him that he was more than a sexual need.
Uma simply dug in for the journey, trusting Mitchell as he eased into a kitchen chair, bringing her legs to straddle his lap. She fisted his hair, sucking in her breath as his fullness entered, stretching, warming, pulsing tight and deep within her. Mitchell’s hands began a rhythm she caught and locked onto and hoarded, the fiery height of desire rising quickly as his mouth slanted against hers, his tongue repeating the rhythm of their bodies.
The pressure built, coming faster and hotter, and Mitchell’s hand caught her hair, his face honed by passion as he watched her.
“Don’t watch,” she whispered desperately. Waves of pleasure flowed over her, heat pouring through her skin, or was it his?
With a harsh sound, Mitchell drew inside himself, his eyes slitted, his body giving to hers. “Uma…”
Pushed to the fiery peak, Uma took in the pleasure, absorbing, treasuring it and the caress of Mitchell’s hands. She leaned heavily against him, her face resting near his throat as his hands moved over her, his face rubbing hers. “I didn’t intend to have you like this—”
She smiled and nipped his ear lightly. “Liar.”
“I was thinking of a bed and more time and—”
The telephone rang shrilly, and Uma couldn’t move. Mitchell tensed and reached for the wall telephone while holding her tightly within one arm. “What?”
