by Theresa Weir
She was drifting in and out of a wonderful stupor when the door flew open so hard it banged against the wall.
She sat up straight, her heart pounding.
Dylan stood in the opening, his coat unbuttoned, head bare, out of breath. “I didn’t know what the hell had happened to you.” He sounded angry and relieved at the same time. “Why didn't you tell me you were coming out here? I've been looking all over for you.”
She shivered. “You're letting in cold air.”
He closed the door, blinking his eyes against the semi-darkness.
She leaned her head against the wall closing her eyes. “There’s another towel there if you’re modest.”
She heard him shrug out of his coat, heard him kick off his boots.
“It’s like a sauna in here,” he joked in a voice was a little breathless. '"I've always wanted to say that, but never had the opportunity.”
“You’ve never been in a sauna before?”
“Nope.”
'"I love it. You feel it all the way to your toes, all the way to your bones.”
“I never could figure out why people would pay money to sit and sweat.”
She opened her eyes just enough to peek through her eyelashes.
He was in the process of taking off his shirt. That was followed by his jeans, then a pair of white jockey shorts.
He was so tan. Where had he gotten so tan? The only place that hadn’t been exposed to the sun was a strip of pale, firm, muscled bottom just slightly wider than his jockey shorts.
How had he gotten so gorgeous?
And why the hell wasn’t he the least bit interested in her? She thought about the horrible things Anton had said about her. Was she really so unappealing? So unattractive? So lacking in sexuality? Maybe Anton was right. Flannel shirts and workboots probably didn't do a lot for a guy.
Dylan was reaching for the towel when she beat him to it, her eyes wide open, her arm stretched toward him, towel in hand.
It was hard to keep her gaze locked on his, to keep her eyes from drifting southward, but she managed. She also had excellent peripheral vision. And she thought she detected some signs of life down there.
Keeping his eyes on hers, he slipped the towel from her fingers. Then, with what seemed to her a studied hesitance, he wrapped it around his waist, low above his hips. Then he sat down, not right next to her, but close. Close enough for her to touch him if she got the notion.
“Are you going to press charges?” he asked.
Anton. Why did he have to bring up Anton? She was trying to forget about him, at least for the moment.
She stood and poured some water on the hot coals. It sizzled, releasing a cloud of steam. When she turned around, Dylan was staring at her, and not at her eyes this time. He swallowed, his gaze tracking back up to her face.
The towel she’d wrapped around herself wasn't all that big. Rather skimpy as a matter of fact, just barely covering the important areas.
So. He wasn’t as disinterested as he pretended to be.
“I don’t know.” Perspiration had gathered between her breasts to form a pool. The pool broke, sweat trailing to her navel. “Probably not.”
She sat back down, retucking her towel, pushing the damp hair back from her face.
She heard him exhale. Heard him mutter something under his breath.
“What?”
“It’s hot as hell in here.”
“It’s supposed to be.”
“Since I know you’re not lost or something, I’m gonna leave.”
“You just got here.”
“I changed my mind.”
This time she didn’t even try to pretend she wasn’t watching.
He dropped his towel and reached for his jeans.
“How did you get so tan?” she asked, openly curious. Her gaze moved from his face, down his chest, then lower.
Oh, my. It was her turn to swallow.
He slipped first one leg into his jeans, then the other. He had a little trouble getting the rest of himself situated, wincing as he pulled up the zipper.
“The desert.”
“The desert? Where?”
He shrugged into his flannel shirt. “Arizona.”
“As in Phoenix?”
“As in the middle of nowhere.” He stuffed his feet into workboots, but didn’t tie them.
“And you ran around in your underwear there?”
“Cutoffs.”
He was about to step out the door when she stopped him. “You forgot something.” His underwear dangled from one finger. He grabbed them from her and stuck them into his coat pocket.
~0~
That night, as they sat in front of the fire—Claire curled up in her usual corner of the couch, her feet tucked under her, and Dylan on the floor, his back against the couch—Dylan made an offer Claire couldn't refuse.
“Why not let me take care of everything while you paint, while you put a new proposal together. You won't have to worry about the dog, or the wood, or groceries or anything. Just concentrate on your painting.”
“And what do you get out of this? I can't afford to pay you anything.”
“A place to stay. For a while.”
“A place to hide, isn't that what you mean?”
“I need some breathing space. I need some time to think, to figure out what I should do. And what if Anton comes sniffing around here again? I'd sure as hell like to be here if that happens.”
She wouldn't admit it, but she'd been rather worried about that herself.
“What do you say? I'll be Mr. Mom and you can concentrate on your proposal.”
“I'm not sure I even want to put a proposal together now. I don't know if I can start all over.”
“Come on, Claire. Don't chicken out on me.”
“Maybe I'm just being realistic.”
“You're good. Don't let a fear of rejection keep you from finding out just how good you are.”
When he put it that way, what choice did she have?
~0~
Dylan turned out to be a halfway decent cook— something he’d learned in prison, Claire decided. And he'd been perfectly serious about taking care of everything so she could paint. He repaired the broken easel. He chopped wood. He fed the dog. He got groceries. He cleaned the house. He did the laundry. He even cleaned out the bucket o' barf so he could remove the ashes from the woodstove.
It didn’t take her long to realize that he didn’t go about chores the way most people did. He was either the laziest man alive, or the most ingenious.
He didn't haul the wood he chopped. Instead, he got it to the front porch by way of a conveyor belt he'd put together with an old motor and treadless tires, cut into long strips. He didn't just feed the dog. He made a kind of Mouse Trap Game contraption, that, when you pushed a lever, dumped dry dog food from a coffee can to slide down a trough to finally end up in Hallie's dish. Most of the time. If it snowed, his invention didn't work. That bothered him.
“I need to come up with a way to keep the snow off the trough. Maybe heat tape attached to the bottom so the snow will melt when it hits it.”
Housecleaning for him was a game. He somehow had it figured so he could dust and sweep the entire house in eight minutes and thirty seconds.
And then there were the dishes. She kept wondering how he got them washed, dried, and put away so fast until one evening she caught him spraying off a plate, then stacking it in the cupboard without drying it.
“You've been washing dishes without soap?” she asked in disbelief.
He shrugged, hosed down another plate, and stuck it in the cupboard.
~0~
“What the hell's this?”
Claire looked up from the worktable to see Dylan standing on the ladder, visible from the waist up. Dangling from one finger was a pair of her panties.
“Underpants.” It was rather erotic to see him holding something of hers that was so personal.
“You actual wear this?”
He, on
the other hand, was acting as if the scrap of fabric didn't do anything for him. “What's the purpose?” He held it open with his two index fingers, the elastic stretched tight. It was just a little triangle of nylon attached to a couple of pieces of elastic.
“It's called a thong.”
“Why?”
“I'm not sure. Maybe because of the way the elastic fits ...”
“No, I mean why do you wear this kind of thing? ”
She put down her paintbrush. “I guess it's my one concession to femininity.”
He balled it up and stuck it in his shirt pocket, shaking his head.
“Don't you think it's sexy?”
“Sure, but Claire, you don't need to go around wearing some torture device to be sexy.” It was the first time he’d ever said anything that made her he might find her attractive.
“Actually ...” She gave him a little smile. “They aren't uncomfortable. They’re rather liberating. Almost like having nothing on at all.”
“Is that right?” He was staring at her in a contemplative way.
She picked up her brush. “That's right.”
~0~
With Dylan's help, Claire got her proposal finished. It wasn't as complete as the first one would have been, but it was there—enough, she hoped, to give the card company a solid idea of her capabilities, limited though they might be.
She packaged it up, then drove to Fallon and mailed it to her agent. As soon as it was no longer in her hands, she felt drained, wiped out. Before going home, she stopped at the gas station. She was inside paying, when she spotted a gossip magazine the counter. And right there on the front was a picture of Anton. It seemed he was now living on the Riviera with the rich widow.
Should she tell Dylan? Her proposal was done. Anton was out of the country. There was no reason for Dylan to stay. But if she said something to him then he would think she wanted him to leave. And she didn’t want to him leave.
One of these days she’d tell him.
~0~
The next day she noticed something she may have been too busy to pick up on before. There was a studied aloofness about Dylan. Whenever they were in the same room, he would take off, seeming to have something of the utmost importance to do.
“You're not my slave,” she told him one evening when he wouldn't take the time to sit down and eat. “That's not what any of this was about.”
“I ate earlier. When you were in town.”
“It would have been nice if we could have eaten together.”
“I didn't think about it. Food to me is just fuel.”
She didn't believe him.
Why was he avoiding her?
She took a good long look at herself. At that very moment, she was wearing a pair of bib overalls that were incredibly soft and comfortable. They were also faded and torn and paint-splattered. Her hair—she couldn't remember when she'd last really even thought about it. And makeup? Had she worn any lately? Come to think of it, she'd have to wonder about any man who did find her attractive.
The next morning Claire stood at the window, watching Dylan chop wood. Even though it was cold out, he'd stripped down to a T-shirt. And when he stopped to wipe the sweat from his forehead, steam rose from his hot body.
She couldn't spend her days mooning over somebody who had no interest in her. You couldn't make someone feel attracted to you.
At least that's what she told herself … until she came across the voodoo doll. She was going through the desk, looking for stamps, when she found it. Until that moment, she'd completely forgotten about the doll. The little pin was still in its chest—proof that it didn't work. Dylan hadn't fallen head over heels in love with her. And would she have wanted him to anyway? No, of course not. Another complicated relationship was the last thing she needed, especially one with somebody who was wanted by the police. She'd let him stay at her place in hopes of helping him find some direction, giving him a chance to get himself together, figure out what he was going to do.
Al the same, she couldn't quit staring at the voodoo doll. Maybe she'd been going about this all wrong.
She searched through the drawer until she found another white pin. This time, instead of sticking it in the heart, she poked it in the crotch.
The front door opened, cold air blasting in, along with Dylan and an armload of wood.
Claire stared, the doll in her hand.
His face hidden by the wood, Dylan kicked off his boots and strode across the room, moving in the direction of the stove.
Claire hurriedly stuffed the voodoo doll into the desk and slammed the drawer.
Chapter 19
Over two weeks had passed since Claire mailed her material to New York, and in that time neither Dylan nor Claire had mentioned Dylan’s pending departure. The possible return of Anton was the only reason Dylan had to give for delaying a journey into new and uncharted territory, if the question were to come up. That was until the day he went to town to get groceries and spotted the tabloid while waiting in the checkout lane. He picked it up. Was it Claire’s Anton? The story fit. The guy was an artist having an affair with a rich widow. If it was Anton, then Dylan had no excuse to linger.
He slipped the tabloid back into its slot, hoping Claire wouldn’t see it.
It had been nice, he told himself as he drove back to Claire’s, living a reclusive life in a mountain cabin with a beautiful woman, making love to her day and night, if only in his dreams. And that's what it had been. A dream. A fantasy. She was probably expecting him to leave, waiting for him to leave, but was too nice to ask when that leave-taking would happen. She’d been acting weird around him lately and now he finally figured out why. What did they say about houseguests? They were like fish. After three days they started to smell. He should be pretty ripe by now. At least when he left, he wouldn’t have to worry about Anton bothering Claire.
When he got to Claire's, she met him at the door, screaming.
His heart slammed in his chest. At first, he just naturally thought something bad had happened. But then he realized she was happy. She was jumping up and down, screaming and laughing, and trying to talk. She kept waving an envelope in front of his face.
“They liked it!” she shrieked.
He laughed along with her, still not having a clue.
"'My proposal! Cardcity liked my proposal! ”
The pictures. The proposal for the card line. That was fast.
“This is a letter from my agent! ” She grabbed him by both arms and continued to jump up and down. “They've made an offer!”
One minute she was smiling and laughing at him. The next, she was pulling his head down, kissing him.
Oh Lord.
Sweet, sweet Lord.
It wasn’t a long kiss. Or a short kiss. Or a sisterly kiss. Or a sexy kiss. It was just a kiss.
And it knocked him out. Sent his head spinning.
She let go of him and jumped away, running around the room, waving the letter in the air. She jumped on top of the couch, the cushions popping up around her feet.
And all he could think about was the kiss. All he could about was how badly he wanted her.
Set the twilight reeling. Now he understood what Lou Reed meant.
She jumped off the couch. “John—my agent— says not to take their first offer. But I don’t know." She stopped in front of him, arms at her side, her chest rising and falling. Her eyes shined. She shined.
She couldn’t stand still. She rushed past him, and when she did, he caught a whiff of the cedar scent that permeated her hair. He could still feel the sweet soft imprint of her lips against his. She stopped in front of him again, this time with her legs apart, hands on hips. “What do you think?"
“Think?" I think I love you. Son of a bitch. Partridge Family lyrics were popping into his head. He should have stuck with Lou Reed.
She may have been wearing a pair of faded bib overalls and a waffle-weave shirt, but Dylan knew that underneath all that was a lacy, transparent bra that cupped he
r lush breasts, plus a tiny wisp of fabric between a pair of soft, inviting thighs.
“About the offer? Should I accept now? Or hold out? I’m afraid if I hold out they might change their minds. I don’t want them to think I’m difficult to deal with.”
I think I want you.
I think I have to have you.
Somewhere between her kiss and bedtime, he put the groceries away. Sometime in there, they ate something. Sometime in there, he took a shower, and she took a shower, and they both went to bed, Claire in her room, Dylan on the couch.
But he couldn’t sleep. No way in hell could he sleep.
He kept thinking about her, wearing those little bitty strings she called panties. And those lacy, see-through tops she called bras.
But then, somewhere about midnight, he must have dozed off, because he came awake all hot and horny. He tossed back the covers and swung his feet to the floor. Normally the floor would have felt cold under him, but he was burning up. He peeled off his damp T-shirt, leaving him wearing nothing but a pair of flannel boxer shorts. Then, barefoot, he made his way through the dark to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and pulled out the container of water.
He stood there in the open door, drinking from the water bottle, the cool blast from the refrigerator hitting him full in the bare chest. He put the bottle back on the shelf. Instead of closing the door, he leaned his head against one arm, closed his eyes, and just stood there.
“Having trouble sleeping, too?”
He straightened to see Claire standing there, bundled up in her heavy coat, that goofy hat, a pair of clunky boots, and bare legs.
“Claire,” was all he could think of to say.
“I couldn't sleep so I decided to start the sauna. It should be hot by now. Want to join me?”
He continued to stare.
“I've got magazines.” She held up an issue of Rolling Stone. “I've got food.” She held up a box of crackers. “You're not supposed to eat in a sauna, but I didn't think crackers would hurt. And I've got something to drink.” She held up a bottle of wine.
He was sure one of those came with every sauna installation.
He slammed the refrigerator door, leaving them in total darkness. “I don't know.” He rubbed his still perspiring forehead.
