They reached the creek without incident. Evan let go of her hand. “I’ll be right here.” He headed for a large boulder at the base of the cliff. Once there he turned his back, and she wasted no time stripping off her manure-encrusted clothes.
“Are there alligators in Arkansas?” Jilly dipped her toe into the water.
“Yes.”
She snatched it back and peered into the murky blackness.
“But not here.”
“You’re sure?”
“We’re too far north for a wild alligator to live in the creek.”
Wild alligator? Was there any other kind?
Gathering her courage, Jilly waded in. She removed her hair from the French braid, then washed as quickly as she could, not liking the brush of fish—or at least she hoped they were fish—against her thighs, or the squish of mud between her toes. She especially hated the chill of the water, which made her nipples harden and her skin tingle.
Moments after she’d stepped in, Jilly stepped out. Drying herself quickly, she donned the white satin gown. When she went to look for the elastic band so she could rebraid her hair, it was gone. Jilly cursed.
“What’s the matter?”
Evan’s voice was closer than she expected and she started, then glanced up. He stood only a few feet away.
“I need to braid my hair, but I lost the fastener. I’ll have a mess of tangles if I sleep with it loose.”
Reaching up, he tugged on his ponytail. His hair spilled over his shoulders, across his face. He offered Jilly the rubber band. “Use mine.”
His voice was hoarse, as if the cool night air had given him a sore throat. His hand trembled and guilt suffused her. He was cold, and she’d made him stand here waiting for her.
She plucked the rubber band from his palm and deftly braided her hair, ignoring her mother’s voice, which said a rubber band would give her split ends. Mother had more rules than any sane person could recall. Funny how Jilly always managed to remember every one.
Or maybe not funny at all.
Jilly traced her fingers over Evan’s rubber band, feeling dangerous and bad. Today a rubber band in her hair, tomorrow…what? Depraved sex with a poverty-stricken carpenter?
Her eyes strayed to Evan. He faced away from her again, arms wrapped around himself to ward off the chill. Just the sight of him made her nipples tighten and her body shiver.
“We should get back to the house,” she said.
His answer was a grunt before he took off without glancing back. Jilly scrambled to keep up, nearly tripping in the ankle-length sheath.
He didn’t offer his hand, and she stumbled on the ascent. “Hey!” she called. “A little help here?”
He sighed, turned and hauled her up the last few feet. His eyes flickered over her, pausing at the neckline of her gown, then dipping a bit lower to linger. Jilly shifted and the satin brushed her nipples, tightening them further.
Evan spun around and headed for the inn at an even faster pace. Jilly lifted her skirt and struggled to catch up, which was the only reason she didn’t see him stop dead several yards from the house. She slammed into him and would have fallen on her satin-clad butt if he hadn’t caught her.
His hands, hard and rough, held her forearms. She liked how they felt against her skin. The scrape of countless injuries intrigued her. She wanted to learn about every one, trace the scars with her fingertip, lick them with her tongue.
Swaying toward him, she lifted her mouth, and discovered he wasn’t looking at her but at the inn. She followed his gaze. The lamp he’d left burning in his room threw shadows against the wall next to the window. Shadows that looked an awful lot like a man.
Jilly stiffened. “We should call the police.”
“Got your cell phone?”
“Damn.” Even if she had brought it along to the creek, the thing didn’t work in this neck of the woods.
“I’ll get rid of him.”
“No.” She reached for Evan, but caught only the tail of his shirt. “Let’s drive to town.”
Evan grinned. “You want to go to South Fork like that?”
He had a point. “Fine. I’ll stay here. You go.”
“Like hell,” he grumbled. “I’ll take care of this.”
He headed for the back door, Jilly on his heels.
Evan stopped, turned, tilted his head. His hair swung free, and she reached up to brush it away from his face. He caught her hand before she could touch him.
“Stay outside until I say it’s okay to come in. In fact—” he reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out some keys “—get in the truck. If I’m not out in five minutes, head to town.”
“Like hell,” she repeated.
“I’m the youngest of five brothers. I know how to sneak up on someone, then kick their ass. At my house we called it fun.”
“You got a gun?”
“I don’t need no stinkin’ gun,” he said in a Mexican accent so bad she would have laughed if she hadn’t been scared to death.
He sobered. “Guns kill people, Jilly.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Relax.” He gave her a quick kiss on the forehead that only left her wanting more. “Burglars rarely carry guns. There’s a much stiffer penalty if they’re armed.”
“Burglar?” Her heart pounded harder. “As in thief?”
“What did you think the guy was after? An invitation to dinner?”
“The money. I left it in my room.”
Evan’s face tightened. “Get in the truck.” He put his hands on her shoulders and gave her a little shake. “Stay there.”
He slipped into the house. Jilly took one step toward the pickup and paused. Slowly she backed up until she could see the single illuminated window on the third floor. A chill went through her.
The window was empty.
She bit her lip, glanced around the clearing. Nothing moved but the leaves on the trees. What if the intruder had come out the front door while they were talking? What if, even now, he was creeping up on her in the dark? Or…
What if he was lying in wait for Evan?
A tiny sob escaped her lips, and Jilly started for the house, but she stopped short of entering. Evan had told her to stay here. Wandering around in the dark would only confuse the issue. What if he hit her over the head with a two-by-four? What if she hit him?
Air being blown through horsey nostrils sounded an instant before something wet sprayed the back of her neck. Jilly turned and discovered Lightning’s great big head right next to hers. She hadn’t heard him approach. Not a clip or even a clop. She’d been too busy worrying about Evan and her money.
“If that money’s gone we are so screwed,” she murmured.
Lightning threw up his head in agreement.
For the first time she was glad the horse was there. At least she wasn’t alone. Together they watched the house, until the door opened and Evan popped out.
“What happened?” Jilly asked. “Who was it?”
“No one.”
“What?”
“I went through the entire house. No one was there.”
“Did he run off?”
“Maybe. But I didn’t hear anything. Nothing’s disturbed. Your money’s right where you left it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Me, either, unless…” Evan’s eyes met hers. “Unless we just saw Matthew Tolliver.”
“He’s dead.”
“Exactly.”
“No. There’s an explanation for everything, and a ghost isn’t it.”
“The place is haunted. Everyone says so.”
“If everyone said the earth was flat would you quit taking long walks in the dark?”
“I don’t, anyway.”
“That’s beside the point. The people here are—well…” She wasn’t quite sure how to say “backward” without saying it.
He heard her, anyway. “The folks around here are a lot smarter than you think.”
“
Maybe so, but there’s still no such thing as ghosts.”
Evan looked up at the now empty third floor window. “I guess we’ll find out.”
“How?”
“The instant you say something doesn’t exist, that’s an open invitation to be proved wrong.”
EVAN LEFT JILLY IN HER room and went to his. Was she trying to kill him with that gown?
So white it was nearly silver, the thing clung to every curve, leaving nothing to his imagination. She smelled even more strongly of jasmine; must be her soap or shampoo. Knowing that his rubber band was wrapped around her long red tresses made him want to wrap something else of his around something of hers—or the other way around.
Evan smacked his forehead against the door, but the urge didn’t go away.
He took off his shirt, stripped down to his boxers. He couldn’t sleep wearing much more than that. The inn was as hot as a kiln; he felt as if he was being baked hard from the inside out.
Crossing to the window, he stared at the backyard. Lightning was nowhere to be seen. Addie insisted the horse wouldn’t leave the inn, which was why Lightning lived here and not with her. Evan thought it was a convenient excuse to pawn off the old nag.
Something shuffled behind him, like a shoe against the scratched wood floor. Evan turned, but the room was as empty as his life.
“Matthew?” he whispered.
The wind stilled as if listening for an answer, but none came. Evan felt a little foolish talking to his sleeping bag.
Adrenaline pumping—both from the sight of an intruder and from a glimpse of Jilly in that satin gown—he paced. He wanted to go three rounds with something, maybe someone. Too bad Dean wasn’t here.
As kids he and his brother had fought like cats in a burlap sack. If they’d had to share a room alone, they might have killed each other. But his mother, in her infinite wisdom, had put Aaron in with them. Whenever Dean wanted to throttle Evan, whenever Evan wanted to pummel Dean, Aaron would step in and with a few quiet words make all the anger go away.
Evan fingered the tiny scar on the back of his neck. Well, almost all. He and Dean had gone a few rounds when Aaron wasn’t looking.
Since he couldn’t beat the crap out of his big brother and take the edge off, a walk around the house would have to do. He’d check the locks—for all the good they did. Anyone who wanted to could climb in through a broken window.
What they needed was a dog, and Evan knew just where to get one. His mom had been trying to foist off doodles since the little yippers had been born. She hadn’t had much luck, which meant there were still five at home. When he went to town, he’d call and have one of the dalmatian-poodle mixes sent to him ASAP.
Not a sound came from behind Jilly’s door as he went by. At least someone was sleeping.
Evan crept downstairs, rattled the doorknobs, stared at the empty field, the shadowed trees, the dark, gloomy hills. He was so damned lonely he ached with it.
When had he started to search for love in all the wrong places? He couldn’t quite recall.
He’d never truly been in love. No one had ever loved him. Well, his mother, but she didn’t count. Just don’t tell her that.
Everything had been fine until he’d begun to confuse sex with a deeper emotion, to hope that the women who wanted his body just might want him for more than a night, a week, a month. Only when he’d begun to hope had he discovered how foolish his hope had been. So he’d decided to start over where no one knew him as “just a gigolo.”
Evan strode into the kitchen and ran smack into Jilly.
She dropped her cup on the floor. The plastic bounced; water splashed all over Evan’s feet and halfway up his calves. She slid in the puddle, and Evan grabbed her before she fell.
“What are you doing down here?” he demanded, even as his thumbs skidded over the soft skin at the inside of her elbow.
“Water,” she rasped, her breath brushing his chest.
His body leaped in response, reminding him that he wore nothing but boxers, and she was still wearing that damn silver gown.
He tried to let go, but his fingers only clenched more tightly. Her head tipped back; her breasts thrust forward; her thighs skimmed against his.
“Evan?” she whispered, and kissed him.
His head told him to run. Sadly, there was another part of him, a little farther south, that was telling him something else.
Touch her. Take her. Make her yours.
Of course sex didn’t mean someone belonged to you, no matter how much you might want them to.
He was kissing her back before he knew what he was doing. His hands had a mind of their own, stroking her arms, clasping her shoulders, drawing her close, then closer still.
She didn’t know how to kiss, and that in itself was arousing. He was so tired of women who told him what to do and how, wanting so much from him but never giving anything of themselves.
Along with his need for a new life had come a need for a new type of woman. He hadn’t thought to find her in Jilly. She was a widow. Why didn’t she know how to kiss?
His fingertips skimmed her face. She sighed, and he delved deeper, sampling every inch of her mouth. He loved kissing women. They almost always tasted as good as they smelled.
She went wild in his arms, touching his chest, pressing their bodies together. He drank her desperate cries, stilled her hips with his hands, lifted his mouth from hers and murmured, “Hush.”
Her eyes glittered, despite the lack of light. A sheen of sweat shone across her breastbone. He wanted to fill his hands with the soft flesh of her breasts, dip his tongue into the valley between them, lay her back on the kitchen table and—
Whoa!
The thought brought him up short. He’d done that too many times before. He wasn’t going to follow the same path. Here he would exert some control over the animal in his pants. He had to. Or lose what was left of himself.
If there’d ever been any self in the first place.
Evan had always been that fifth Luchetti brother. Talk about an heir and a spare; he was so far down the list as to be unnecessary. So he’d gone searching for a way to stand out. He’d found it. Right now “it” was standing out to an embarrassing degree.
“Jilly, I—”
“I don’t know what’s the matter with me,” she interrupted. “You make me feel…things I’ve never felt before.”
He frowned. What was she saying?
“Your body. Your hair. Your hands. All I think about when I close my eyes, and even when I open them, is having those hands all over me.” She shook her head. “I can’t believe I’m telling you this. I’ve never wanted…anyone.”
“Never?”
“Sex was—is—a chore.”
She stood so close he felt her chest rise and fall, the shadow of a touch, the promise of so much more. He couldn’t help himself—he stroked her cheek. She rubbed her face against his hand like a cat.
“Sex isn’t a chore, if you do it right.”
“Will you…show me how?”
“How?”
“To have sex and like it.”
There was an offer no man in his right mind could refuse. A beautiful, single woman begging him to make her come. And he had to say—
“I can’t.”
A stricken expression passed over her face. “Don’t you like…women?”
Her question startled a laugh out of him. “I like them too much. I’ve had sex with women like a drunk drinks.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m never going to have sex without love again.”
It was her turn to laugh, but when he didn’t join in, the laughter trailed off. “You’re serious.”
“Very. Sex without love doesn’t mean a damn thing.”
“I don’t want this to mean anything. I just want it not to be awful.”
He frowned. That Jilly thought sex was awful upset him. He could be the guy to show her differently. He was so tempted.
Until she shook her
head and headed for the door. “Hell, Luchetti, I don’t believe in love any more than I believe in ghosts.”
CHAPTER SIX
HOW COULD ANYONE not believe in love?
Evan stood in the darkened kitchen that still smelled like jasmine, and considered what Jilly had said.
She didn’t like sex; she didn’t believe in love. What had happened to make her so hard-hearted? He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
Except he liked her. A lot. He hated the thought of Jilly living her life without pleasure or love. But what could he do about it?
If he showed her the joy of sex, he’d only be betraying himself. Was that any way to change his life? If he started now with “just one more,” how easy would it be the next time to give in?
Evan doused his head with cool water from a jug, then drank a little, too. It didn’t help. His skin still prickled with heat, and his body still shouted for fulfillment.
He didn’t sleep very well that night, but at least he slept alone.
JILLY TOSSED AND TURNED. Was she losing it? If she couldn’t get a young, virile man, one who admitted to sleeping with far too many women, to sleep with her, how was she going to get anyone to marry her? Had she finally gotten too old for the game?
Impossible. Jilly climbed out of her sleeping bag. She had quite a few good years left. She just had to plan better.
Removing a pair of taupe linen slacks and a peach silk shirt, unfortunately long-sleeved, she hunted up the scissors Evan had left in her room. She wouldn’t last an hour in this outfit, and since it was bound to be garbage by sundown, she might as well get a jump on the day.
“There,” she said, satisfied when she’d cut the slacks off at midthigh and the sleeves at the seam. “That’s the way to waste three hundred dollars.”
Donning her new Arkansas outfit, Jilly went to the kitchen and tackled the percolator.
This proved a more difficult task. There were so many parts. How did they fit together? Where did the coffee go? Weren’t there any filters? Confused, frustrated, caffeine-deprived, Jilly did the best she could, and ended up with brown water full of coffee grounds for her trouble.
Lightning stuck his head into the window above the sink and sniffed at her discarded cup. He snorted, spraying drool into the dregs.
The Husband Quest Page 6
