“I’m a ranch hand, remember? But corn shocks are a little before my time.” He smiled that devastating smile at her. Then he bent his head, his eyes searching out more unwanted seeds and leaves. The sunlight from the windows gleamed on his black hair and highlighted its sheen. A dried leaf, its edges jagged, lay just at the top of his crown. She reached up to brush it away.
“Thanks.” The dark head lifted, turned, his eyes sweeping the room. They lingered briefly on the elaborate bulletin board display, swept over the washed, green chalk board, and swung to the table where the things she had bought Friday lay, the coiled hemp rope to tie the shock, the paper cutouts of zany Halloween creatures to decorate it.
He nodded toward the rope. "Looks like you're all ready. Might as well get this started." He nodded at the pile. "I'll hold, you stack."
He leaned over the stalks and picked them up one by one, holding them upright until he was almost hidden and the bundle in his arms was so big that he couldn't bend over it. "Hand me some more, will you?"
Standing behind that bundle of dried corn, he looked very human. She felt her mouth curving at the sight of the glossy hair being showered once more by dry leaves. His utterly unselfconscious attitude about his appearance disarmed her. It didn't matter to him that he looked more like a farmer every minute. The sophisticated Hollywood producer had vanished. She had a feeling she was glimpsing a warm, deeply intelligent personality, a man who had not lost his perspective. He was completely lacking in a sense of self-importance.
He flicked an impatient, bright-eyed look at her. "Well, come on, lady, lend a hand. I'm not your private scarecrow."
She laughed, the wry words increasing her liking for him. "I'm sure every girl in junior high would discover a new enthusiasm for social studies if you were.”
He grimaced. "Thanks for adding cradle-robbing to my sins."
His self-deprecation made her guard drop even more. "You wouldn't have to rob a thing. By fifth period girls would be dropping into your arms like flies seeking honey."
"Great, just what I wanted to hear, that I'd be a real heartthrob for the teeny-bopper set." He frowned, was quiet for a moment. "What are your kids like?"
She was startled by the question. What did he care what kind of students she had? She almost gave him a noncommittal answer and then reconsidered. It was a safe topic. "They come in all shapes and sizes and degrees of talent and need."
"Need?"
"Yes, need," she repeated thoughtfully. "If they don't get adult attention at home, they crave it at school. And of course, they need to be accepted by their peers, to be one of the crowd. Junior high kids are restless, driven. My adviser in college used to tell me there are only two kinds of people in junior high, the quick and the dead. The kids are the quick, and the teachers are the dead-tired from trying to keep up with them.”
He laughed, his Adam's apple moving in his darkly tanned throat. Then he controlled himself and said, "Check the bottom of this mess, will you? If we don't keep it even, we won't have a chance of getting the thing to stand up by itself."
She gave him the last stalk to hold, made a quick perusal of the stack, and walked to the table to pick up the rope. He looked at her sleek body clad in the well-fitting jeans, the supple way she moved as she bent over the table, and said in a faintly smooth tone, "What about the boys? “Don't they enjoy having a young, attractive, unattached woman teacher to look at every day?"
She stood in front of him clutching the rope. “If I’m going to be honest, I have to tell you, most of them call me Mom.”
“You’re kidding.”
She shook her head. “One of the boys started it and the rest just fell in. I don’t mind. Mom is a lot better then other names boys can call their teachers.”
"I’m sure that’s true. Thread the rope through in front of me while I've got a good hold on the shock."
Every one of her senses clamored as she stepped in close, took an end of the rope, and nudged it between his waist and the stalks. The back of her hand registered the feel of smooth cotton over the hard flatness of his stomach. Warmed from his exertion, he exuded a faintly male smell that mingled with the dry leaves and tantalized her nose. Her fingers were clumsy. At last, she got the rope around the stalks and pulled it tight. He came from behind the stack to help her, taking the rope to pull it taut while she tied the knot. When it was secure, he said, "How is this thing supposed to stand up?"
"You flare the bottoms like this." She leaned over and tugged at several, making them bow outward. The stack lurched crazily to one side. Ty caught it and gave her a bland look. "Got any other suggestions?"
"Hang on to it for a minute while I do the other side."
"Are you sure the Pilgrims went through all this?"
She smiled. "They didn't shock the corn, at least not the first year. They ate what the Indians gave them."
He looked down at the honey-blond of her hair, a flow of molten gold over the shoulder of the blue T-shirt she wore. The ends of satiny hair lay just above the jutting curves that pressed against the thin cotton. She seemed all of a piece with the earth colors of the corn shock they had made, all tones of cream and gold, her skin lightly tanned. What had she done this summer? Who had she spent her time with? That sweet-uncle type she was seeing? Something kicked deep in his gut.
She finished tugging at the stalks. "Let go of it. Let’s see if it will stand up by itself."
He stepped back and thrust his hands in his pockets. The shock stayed upright, and she looked pleased. He said, "You need a few pumpkins scattered around.''
A faint pink color tinged her cheeks. What had he said to make her color up like that?
"I forgot to get them from Stan."
He kept his face noncommittal, trying to ignore the graceful way she came up from the floor with her back straight and her chin high. He remembered how that slim, womanly body had yielded against his for just a moment. "Why did you forget them?"
Her eyes flickered away. "You distracted me."
He tightened his muscles, forcing himself to maintain his lazy stance. He had sworn he wasn't going to scare her off this time. This time, he was going to let her set the pace, especially after she admitted being attracted to him. But his hands ached to touch her. But he couldn't; he knew that. She would hate him. He tried a delicate probe. "I could apologize for distracting you," he saw the betraying flicker of her eyelashes, and steeled himself to go on, "but I'm not going to. I'm not sorry." He leaned back against a desk, doing his best to look relaxed, but underneath he was taut as a string. "I'd like to disturb you a lot more."
"Don't." Her voice came out low and husky.
He curbed his impatience. She was feeling something; she’d said so. She was breathing faster than normal, and her cheeks were still pink, but she hadn't moved from where she stood, a foot in front of him, her rear pressed against the table. If he took a step forward and she didn't move, he could trap her there.
He didn't want her that way. He wanted her to come freely into his arms, her face filled with joyous delight. Was that pure fantasy? It must be. But that image of her smiling, her eyes sparkling, spun inside his head like a looped film.
She gripped the table with her hands, and every part of her rational mind screamed to her to move, get out. But the other part of her, the part that longed for the brush of those long, lean fingers, the press of that well-shaped mouth on hers, whispered to her to stay, stay and find out what he was going to do.
His face and his body were cool, unreadable. Then his low voice said softly, "You took a step toward the truth just now. Take another. Come here."
The soft promise of sensuality in his words made shivers prickle up and down her spine. "Not a good idea.”
Not a muscle moved; not an eyelash flickered. "Why not?"
She turned away and walked to the window, stood there with her back to him, staring out at-what? What was she seeing? He'd bet it wasn't the school yard.
"This isn’t the time, or the place, a
nd…I’m empty."
The bleak words tore at his soul. If she had cried and screamed, she couldn't have affected him more. Those words told of grief and pain. He went and stood behind her, his hands clenched at his sides, his gaze caressing that beautiful head. He ached to know what was going on underneath that heavy, silky hair. "Why are you empty?"
She whirled around. "Because someone took it all away. Someone very like you." Her brows squeezed together in anguish, her eyes tortured. He stared at her, wondering how much longer he could keep from pulling her into his arms. The room vibrated with a humming silence.
Afterwards, he couldn't have said whether she moved or he moved. It was a simultaneous coming together, a movement by two parts of one mind. His arms went around her and he pulled her close and stroked her back. "Leigh," he murmured huskily, "I'm very sorry. More sorry than I can say.
She shook her head and tensed her body, creating a space between them. "Why should you be? You don't even know me," she said, raising her head to look at him.
"Don't I?" he said softly, his voice huskily disturbed as he bent to let his lips brush hers. The words came into her mouth on his warm breath. "I know you. You've been inside my head, living with me for years. I just couldn't find you."
He took her in his arms and brought her up against a strong, rock-hard body. A delicious sense of relief exploded inside her. Here was a man she could lean on, depend on, trust. She tilted her head to receive his kiss, savoring his warm protection. She had never felt such gentleness emanate from a man before, and she was drowning in it. Then, subtly, the tenderness changed and became passionate demand. His lips nudged hers, and as her mouth softened, his tongue slid inside. The warm, wet flesh caressed and probed in an erotic dance. A driving urge to respond made her answer with provocative thrusts of her own. He moaned, a half-agonized, half ecstatic moan. The soft male sound scaled her hidden barriers, and desire fountained upward. For a long, heady moment, she received all his lovely intimacies and returned them with a hungry eagerness…until his hand moved just under the curve of her rounded breast. At the touch of his fingers on her flesh, she shuddered, broke off the kiss and thrust him away.
She didn't succeed. His grip was unyielding. She was locked against him at waist and hips. For a long moment he held her in his firm grip, his blue eyes dark. Then his mouth quirked, regaining its normal, mocking slant. "And that from a lady who says she has nothing to give."
She put her palms against his chest to push him away, but on her first tentative push, his fingers tightened their grip on her hips, and the heat of his chest under her hands weakened her resolve. "There’s not enough left," she said coolly
He gave her a long, considering look. "By whose standards? Yours, or mine?"
Memories came rushing in, and her blood cooled. "Let go of me," she said. Instantly, his hands fell away, but somehow she didn't feel the relief she should have felt. "This is a waste of my time and yours," she said, trying to maintain control of her voice. He moved slightly, and she felt the leap of her pulses. Oh, no. I'm falling for this man, and what I feared has already happened. There's nothing I can do except send him away.
She braced herself, curling her fingers into her palm. "Let's be honest with each other. You claim to care how I feel, to want to know me, to feel sorry for me. Yet you're perfectly willing," she hesitated, cleared her throat, "that is, if I read the signs right," She faltered, looked at him, gathered herself to go on. Bluntness was always best and turned any man off, “to amuse yourself by taking me to bed for a one-night stand. Actually," her voice remained steady, by what miracle she didn't know, "you don't give a damn about me."
He didn't move a muscle. "Taking you to bed wouldn't be amusing."
Stung, she cried, "What do you think it would be?"
He was cool, enigmatic. Then a shoulder lifted lazily. "I don't know. You are full of surprises. I'm intrigued."
He lowered dark, sooty lashes to shield his eyes from her view. Her blood cooled, and even cooler reason returned. She must be out of her mind to stand in her own classroom talking about going to bed with a man she barely knew.
She made a graceful, out flung gesture with her hand. "Well, you'll just have to go on being intrigued. I'm not going to go to bed with you to satisfy your curiosity."
He let a beat of time go by. "You've already satisfied my curiosity." His gaze never wavered. "I had another more important satisfaction in mind."
The sexual innuendo ignited a long-quiet nerve in the pit of her stomach. "Not with me, you don’t." she said, each word distinct.
He gave her a long, considering look. "I was right about you, wasn't I? You can love as passionately as you hate."
"What we exchanged wasn't love."
"No, it wasn't," he drawled, surprising her with his agreement, "but it was a damn good stand-in. You liked being in my arms as much as I liked having you there. But now you're frightened. Why, Leigh?"
“You’re not going to poke and pry into my life. My reasons are my own…and private.”
Whatever thoughts he was having were carefully hidden behind that hard face with its square chin. He examined her mercilessly for a moment longer and then turned and walked away, his back straight, his tall body a moving picture of lithe animal grace and male pride.
When she heard his step on the stair, her breath left her body in a long, sighing groan.
CHAPTER FIVE
Ty handled the Trans Am carefully, controlling his temper. The sun was low in the sky, and he drove against it, squinting. He had left his sunglasses in the apartment. Springwater was shadowy, still, with no one about. A gray cat ran out from between two buildings, headed on a collision course with the car. Ty swerved sharply. Cursing, he caught a glimpse of the animal teetering at the edge of the road, his front paws braced to counteract the momentum in his rear end, fur and hackles raised.
Like Leigh, he thought grimly.
The cat turned tail and ran, leaving him to resume his controlled speed and turn onto the street where Eve lived, thoughts of Leigh revolving inside his head like a carousel. Why had she responded to him and then turned him off cold? Why did he represent danger to her? Whatever it was, it was far beyond her fear of being interviewed. Fear on a deeper, more primitive level had made her break off that kiss.
He went back over what he knew of her. Her mother exploded on the screen with a hit movie in her early twenties, married the director, had Leigh. Trouble in the marriage. Director escaping into the wilderness to climb mountains, and to, as he told the press, renew his spirit. Killed in a fall from a mountain peak in Sierra Nevada. Mother already involved with another man who would be the first in a long line of lovers. Leigh raised by hired help while living with her mother in Hollywood. At the age of fourteen, on a vacation in the Adirondacks where she had driven to keep an assignation with another man, her mother met and married Dean Masters. Marriage lasted six months. Claire left, Leigh stayed. Obvious affection between the stepfather and daughter.
Ty turned into the driveway in front of Eve's house, his hands clenching the wheel. There had to be something.
What's the matter, Rundell? Can't stand the thought of a woman turning you down?
No, that wasn't it. If it were any other woman, he'd shrug his shoulders, pack his bags, and leave town without giving her another thought. But he'd been caught in her spell since the first moment he had seen her face in those pictures.
It was true enough women seldom said no to him, especially in the last three years since his films had been such big hits, but he took no pride in his success with women. They were, with few exceptions, predatory females who were interested in one thing, furthering their own careers. There had been minor variations on the theme. The smarter ones who'd refused to go to bed with him and all the while given him signals they'd certainly reconsider if he offered them a part in one of his films, but there had only been one or two of them that had captured his interest for more than a month. The women he had met lately had a remarkable sa
meness about them, as if there was a factory somewhere in L.A. that churned them out of a mold: blond hair, their mouths alive with a bright gaiety that didn't reach their eyes. He cut the motor, snatched the keys from the ignition, and strode up the walk. His first knock on the door went unanswered. He rapped again, a quick, impatient tattoo. After another long moment, Eve opened the door. Her cheeks were flushed with color and her black curls were slightly mussed, and it didn't take a genius to know that he had come at exactly the wrong time. He telegraphed his apology to Deke. His friend had risen from the davenport and was eyeing him with a your-timing-stinks look, the denim jacket gone, the first three buttons of his shirt unbuttoned. Ty felt a fleeting stab of envy.
"Oh, hello. Come in," Eve said, her hand going up to her hair, investigating the damage.
He held out her keys. "I just came to return these. Thanks for the loan of the car." His eyes swung to Deke. "I'm going back to the apartment."
Eve took the keys. "I…that is…how is Leigh?" She slipped the loop of the key chain over her index finger, gave it a nervous twirl, and glanced past the open door. "She isn't with you?"
Ty met her anxious eyes with a cool look. "No."
That disturbed her, but she composed her face and said, "We were just going to have some supper. Nothing fancy, sandwiches and coffee. Would you like to join us?"
From across the room, Deke's eyes met Ty's, and Ty didn't have to be a mind reader to know what his friend was thinking. "No, thanks. I've got some work to catch up on."
She made the polite protest. "We’ve plenty of food."
He gave her a faint smile. "You’re very kind, but I really can't stay." To Deke, he said, "See you later."
He turned and left them, Eve with her face a light pink, Deke wearing a bland, smooth look, his eyes bright with amusement.
When Ty reached the apartment and let himself in, he knew Leigh wasn't in hers. There were no squares of light shining on the lawn. He threw his jacket on the bed and slouched into a chair, wishing he had never heard of Springwater or Leigh Carlow.
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