It was the right thing to say. Hazel's sudden smile seemed lit from within. "Oh, Jess, she's such a dear! Raised six kids of her own and then missed the last one so much she decided to take in other people's children to raise. Along the way, she got her license as a practical nurse. And," she added, leaning forward for emphasis, "she makes chocolate chip cookies to die for."
He was getting used to the sudden bursts of whimsy that seemed to overtake her at odd moments. Besides a tendency to draw a man in emotionally, they encouraged an intimacy that he'd done his best to avoid for a long time now.
"I see why the other parts of her résumé are important in a baby nurse," he said, "but why the cookies?"
"Isn't that obvious? Cookies are a very serious factor in molding a child's character." She seemed entirely serious. And, with the light shimmering over the soft material covering her breasts, damn near irresistible.
"How do you figure?"
"Think back. What do you remember most about your childhood?"
"The smell of the carbolic my mother used when I got banged up."
Her mouth twitched. "Besides that."
"Getting sent to the principal's office."
"Jess! Be serious." Her soft cry made him want to hustle her upstairs and undress her very slowly, something that he could no longer manage without making a fool of himself.
"I am being serious."
He took a sip of her foul-tasting tea, then relented. "Okay, okay, don't look at me like I'm breaking your heart. I seem to remember coming home from school and having milk and cookies before chores."
Her lips curved slowly as she closed in for the kill. "And what kind of cookies were they?"
He made her wait, mostly to see the soft look of anticipation turning her eyes to bronze.
"Chocolate chip."
"Aha, I rest my case."
He tasted the tea yet one more time, found absolutely nothing he liked about it and pushed it away.
"You don't like it?" she asked, pouting just enough to make his heart speed faster. With deliberate mental effort, he leveled it again.
"Not much, no. But I'm not much for tea of any kind." Hazel saw something flicker in his eyes, like a desire for more than something else to drink. Her own desire grew more insistent. "Actually, I'm not all that crazy about tea, either, but it makes me feel virtuous when I drink it, so I do."
He shifted position, frowned, then shifted again until his shoulders were angled just right. Was he too large for the chair, or too restless to relax? she wondered.
"How do you feel when you drink coffee?" he asked, eyeing her from beneath black eyebrows.
"Guilty as sin." She sighed. "It's my second greatest vice, but I wouldn't dream of giving it up."
One corner of Jess's mouth lifted in a curve far short of a smile. He knew that he was letting this woman get to him in ways that broke all his rules, rules he'd made for survival. When he was with her, he couldn't seem to help himself.
"Second greatest vice?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.
"I'd better warn you now," she said, a teasing lilt hiding the slight breathiness in her voice. "I'm a hopeless chocoholic. I keep a secret hoard in my office and another by my bed. Not to mention the stash I have here in the kitchen, of course."
"Sounds hard core."
"Sad to say, it is."
She tasted her tea, then regarded him through the steam. "It's your turn. What's your biggest vice?"
Jess ran through the list, then decided on the one he'd been fighting the longest with the least success. "My temper."
"Bad, is it?"
"Used to be. Now I have a decent hold on it most of the time."
"And when you don't?"
"People tend to … scatter."
"Good way to keep them from getting too close, though, isn't it?"
Jess wasn't used to being challenged. Worse, he wasn't used to having his motives probed, his actions analyzed. He didn't want to be understood. In fact, he'd fought hard to maintain his privacy most of his life. Understanding led to control, something he would never willingly relinquish to anyone.
"Got any Scotch stashed in with that chocolate?"
Her eyes told him that she'd gotten his message and was deciding whether or not to back off. Giving her the option had been a mistake. It made her stronger and him more vulnerable.
"So much for the tea," Hazel said with a dramatic sigh. Leaving her chair, she walked to what he took to be the pantry, returning moments later brandishing a dusty bottle.
"Cherry Bounce. One of my 'parents' gave it to me for Christmas a few years back. It's homemade and, um, just the teensiest bit alcoholic."
"How teensy?" Jess felt compelled to ask as she used a towel to wipe off the dust.
"About sixty proof." Frowning with the exertion, she tried to open the cap. "Darn, it's stuck."
"Don't look at me," he muttered, more laconic than angry.
She laughed. "What do you do at home when you get a stubborn lid?" She turned on the hot tap and held the neck of the bottle under the faucet.
"I have this thing attached to the underside of one of the cabinets that acts as another hand."
"Very clever." Wrapping the cap with a wet towel, she gave a prodigious effort, then cried softly in triumph.
"Now for a proper glass."
Which turned out to be something delicate and expensive-looking, with an impossibly skinny stem and crystal so thin he was almost afraid to touch it.
"Is that better?" Hazel asked, watching him with a smile hovering over soft lips that were just waiting to curve.
The Cherry Bounce had the look of fine claret and a seductive taste that tempted a man to take chances and forget lessons learned.
Jess ran his tongue over the lingering taste of sweet cherries on his lips and fought down the urge to transfer that same taste from his mouth to hers.
"Much better."
Their eyes held a moment too long, and Hazel knew they were close to crossing some invisible line into physical intimacy. Once crossed, she, at least, would be committed. It was a decision she wasn't ready to make.
Jess sensed the moment she pulled back. Pulling back himself, he felt the loss more acutely than was perhaps wise.
"I understand you've been talking to Ms. FitzGerald on my behalf. That little errand you had yesterday." He found himself slipping into the cadence of the courtroom and realized that he felt more at ease with the familiar. The safe.
Surprise flickered in her eyes, but none of the guilt he'd half expected. "I told you that I would do what I could to help. Like you, I do try to keep my promises."
Jess ran his finger along the curve of the glass's slick stem, but his gaze remained focused on her face. On those eyes that seemed to change from green to gold with her mood.
"Did she tell you I had about as much chance of gaining sole custody of Francey as I have of growing another arm?"
"Yes, she told me."
"Did she also tell you that I'd have a much better chance if I were married? Say, to someone with impeccable standing in the community, someone eminently qualified to raise a child? Someone normal?"
Hazel heard the bitterness she had come to expect of him. This time there was an undercurrent of frustration that twisted her heart.
"She didn't use those words, but yes, that's essentially what she said. But then, if you remember, I did warn you that Lynn went strictly by the book."
Her trained eyes caught the quick press of his strong fingers against her wedding crystal. He had a strong mouth, she noticed. Uncompromising, even when he permitted himself the rare intimacy of a kiss.
"Bottom-line," he drawled with deceptive laziness, "it's up to you whether or not I can keep my promise to Silvia."
"That's not fair," she cried softly.
Jess responded with a shift of expression so subtle she nearly missed it – until a flurry of nerves filled her stomach.
"Was it fair when you all but accused me of being a selfish bastard for n
ot instantly jumping at the chance to put myself through an emotional wringer again?"
"I didn't!"
"Sure you did. Told me to fight, remember?" He glanced at his drink, then shoved it aside and stood up. His expression was grim, his eyes hard. "I only know one way to do that, Hazel. Fight to win. If you don't like it, fine. But if you marry me, you'd better get used to it, because I don't intend to change."
Hazel opened her mouth, but no words came out. Swallowing, she tried again. "That sounds like an ultimatum. Follow your rules or get out of your way."
His jaw grew taut, and his skin paled beneath the dusting of stubble. "Perhaps it is an ultimatum," he said, his words clipped and his tone stiff. "Or maybe I'm just tired of waiting for you to make up your mind whether or not Francey's worth tying yourself to a guy like me for the next twenty years or so."
Too upset to risk saying more, Hazel turned around and headed for the door. "Finish your drink if you'd like. Finish the bottle if it'll make you feel better. I'm going to bed, and I'd appreciate it if you locked up when you leave."
He caught her just as she reached the darkened hallway. For an instant, as he spun her around to face him, she was sure that he intended to use force to hurt her this time instead of words. His fingers dug into her arm, then quickly gentled as he brought himself under rigid control.
"I told you I'm not a nice man," he grated, his voice hard and tight and forceful.
"Yes, you did. And it's my fault for not believing you," she said evenly. "I won't make that mistake again."
He dropped his hand from her arm and shoved it into his pocket. "Good night, O'Connor. Sleep well."
He left her standing by the door, her heart hammering in her chest and her stomach already growing queasy.
* * *
"I'm not home."
Hazel snuggled her face deeper into her pillow. Her first appointment was at ten. Sometime around four she'd reset her alarm for eight. It couldn't be that late.
The doorbell rang again, jarring her fully awake. Forcing her eyes open, she glared toward the door leading to the second-floor landing. Somewhere below was the old-fashioned bell that had announced visitors to this house for over a hundred years.
When she'd bought the place a decade ago, the bell had been one of many things that hadn't worked. Whatever had possessed her to have it repaired? she wondered now.
The bell chimed again and kept on chiming. Someone had mashed a thumb against the button, someone who was about to get an earful.
"That's it," she muttered. "I'm ripping out the wires." Still more asleep than awake, she slipped from the warm blankets and groped for her bathrobe.
"Will you stop that noise? I'm coming!" she shouted into the din.
In spite of her self-taught skill as a carpenter, the stairs still creaked no matter how light the tread. The thick runner protected her feet from the cold floor, but not even the inside shutters could block out the brilliant morning sun.
"Okay, okay!" she muttered, jerking open the door.
Hazel had expected a salesman or a religious zealot. Instead she found Jess standing there with Francey tucked awkwardly but securely against his shoulder.
He was dressed in somber blue pinstripes and a white shirt, open at the throat. His tie had been shoved in his breast pocket, and his hair desperately needed brushing.
"Cait has the flu."
"I'm sorry about that, but I'm sure she's in good hands." Hazel was discovering that a nearly sleepless night did wonders for a person's sales resistance but very little for her poker face.
Jess scowled. Apparently his mood matched hers perfectly. "Call her if you don't believe me. Although I have to warn you, she promised to take herself to bed as soon as I left."
Her hair flopped in her eyes. Impatiently she pushed it back. "I believe you," she said without warmth. "I just don't understand why you're here."
"Mrs. Weller, that's why. That perfectly wonderful baker of cookies and baby nurse."
Hazel allowed a quick wave of her hand. "Two doors down on the left. The house with the roses in front."
He closed his eyes for an instant. When he opened them again the ambivalence seething in the dark depths tugged at her just as surely as if he'd uttered an abject plea. She hardened her heart, telling herself not to let this man get close enough to hurt her again.
"I could use a little help here, O'Connor."
"Why? Because you're a helpless cripple?"
He winced. "No, damn it. Because I'm due in court at ten, and Judge Brevard doesn't take kindly to granting recesses so the defense attorney can change a diaper."
He had a point. Not much of one, but a point nonetheless.
"Oh, all right," she muttered, stepping back. "Come in while I give Mrs. Weller a call. The poor dear is probably still asleep."
He stepped across the threshold like a man going to the gallows, bringing with him the tang of soap and a hint of morning fog.
Hazel closed the door and turned, only to find herself looking at Francey's sleepy eyes peeking over Jess's squared shoulder.
"Well, good morning, punkin'," she cooed. "Did you get jerked out of your nice warm crib at the crack of dawn, too?"
Francey hiccuped, then closed her eyes again. Someone had wrapped the baby papoose-fashion in one of the blankets she and Cait had purchased only a few days before. Probably Cait, Hazel surmised, resisting the urge to take Francey into her arms for a quick cuddle. The sooner she distanced herself, the better.
"Seven-fifteen isn't exactly dawn," Jess muttered, turning to face her. She refused to be moved by the lines of fatigue in his face and the shadows under his eyes.
"It is when a person doesn't intend to get up until eight." She stalked down the hall toward the den, pointedly refusing to issue an invitation to follow.
"Don't you have appointments this morning?" His voice, morning deep and lashed with irritation, was close. Invitation or not, Jess was right behind her.
"Yes, starting at ten." She turned when she reached her desk and gave him a cool look. "So you see, we both have obligations this morning," she said as she paged through her book for her neighbor's number.
Jess watched in strained silence for a moment before crossing in front of her to reach the big recliner where she usually curled up for one of her marathon reads.
Instead of sitting, however, he gently lowered Francey to the seat, prompting a few squeaks of protest from the baby before she once again settled into sleep.
Pretty soon he wouldn't be able to carry her that way, Hazel realized as she lifted the phone and punched out Mrs. Weller's number, and then reminded herself that it was none of her business what Jess could or couldn't do. He'd made that very clear last night.
* * *
"So how about it, Dante? Do we have a deal?"
Belatedly, Jess realized that he'd lost track of the pretrial negotiations that he himself had initiated with the assistant D.A.
"Put it in writing," he said, "And I'll discuss it with my client."
"Writing, hell. You and I have never needed to be that formal before."
"That's the best I can do, Fred. Take it or leave it."
D.A. Fred Smith crumpled his soda can and tossed it at the trash barrel under the courthouse oak tree. "What's with you today, anyway, Dante? You look like hell, and a guy could light a match on that mood of yours."
Jess swallowed the last of his coffee and sent his cup to join his colleague's crushed can. "Too much bad coffee and not enough sleep, I guess."
"Maybe you need a vacation."
"Maybe." Or maybe he needed to get his mind back on his work and off a bullheaded, big-hearted, impossible woman who'd managed to push herself into his life in spite of all his efforts to keep her out.
"Ten minutes until court resumes. You coming?"
Jess glanced up to find his favorite adversary watching him curiously. "In a minute."
"Right. See you in court." Fred hesitated, then added gruffly, "And, Dante, if you need s
omeone to talk to, I've been a few places and seen a few things in my time. Maybe I could help."
Jess was on the verge of telling Smith what he could do with his help when he found himself awkwardly thanking the man instead.
Damn that woman, he thought, watching Fred walk toward the courthouse. Now she even had him going soft in the head. All because she'd dragged a lot of things out of him that he'd successfully buried for a long time and made him look at each and every one with different eyes.
He hadn't liked what he'd seen. He just didn't know what to do about it.
* * *
Jess jabbed his thumb against the bell harder than necessary. Inside the old house three tones chimed in genteel succession.
His scowl pulled harder at the tired muscles of his face. Leave it to O'Connor to have a musical doorbell. His place had a no-nonsense buzzer that would wake the dead.
Jess jabbed his thumb on the button again and this time held it there long enough to play three choruses. Short of patience on the best of days, his long hours in court had left him with none.
Besides, he knew she was home. Her yuppie BMW was parked in front of a detached garage no bigger than a doll's house.
Jess glanced over his shoulder at the house belonging to Mrs. Weller. She had seemed a nice enough old lady. Capable, certainly. Sweet tempered, and thrilled to have an infant in her care again.
While he'd hauled in all the baby paraphernalia he'd been able to stuff in the Mercedes, Mrs. Weller and Hazel had coordinated their three schedules.
Mrs. Weller had a five o'clock doctor's appointment she couldn't break. He had an appointment with a new client right after court adjourned, and Hazel had an afternoon meeting.
He'd expected to make it back to Hazel's place before Mrs. Weller had to leave. He'd gotten involved with a call from the Hargrove County's prosecutor's office about the Yoder case, and by the time he'd left his office, the traffic had already snarled.
O'Connor was probably ticked at him for being late, and in all fairness, he couldn't blame her. Turning back, he caught sight of a quick purple blur beyond the frosted pane in the fancy door. The scowl was still on his face when Hazel swung open the door to admit him.
ONCE UPON A WEDDING Page 15
