Shameless (The Contemporary Collection)

by Blake, Jennifer

  “Your woods?”

  “I was there first. After a while, watching you got to be a hobby or a sport, like studying the habits of the squirrel or the deer you hunt.”

  “A sport,” she repeated, her voice taut as an odd shiver ran over her skin at his choice of words. “You mean you watched me for the fun of it, because you got a kick out of it? That makes you no better than a voyeur!”

  The anger that descended on him pushed icy splinters of pain into his brain, yet did nothing to cool the heated need of his body. He wanted to take her down on the grass, to make her retract the words that besmirched something that had never had the dirty, indecent cast she gave it. He wanted to force the words back down her throat with mouth and tongue, and wring an apology from her using every sexual wile and sensual trick he had ever learned. Fighting the urge with a force that brought perspiration to his forehead, he made no reply.

  “Well, I hope you enjoyed it,” she went on in scathing fury, “because now that I know, I'll call the police if I ever catch sight of you around here again.”

  She swung from him, leaving him standing there as she marched away back into her house. The door slammed behind her.

  His voice soft, reflective, Reid said to himself, “Oh, I did. I enjoyed it a lot. And I enjoy it more now.”

  7

  THE MEDIA COVERAGE GIVEN CAMMIE’S CAUSE in the week following the meeting was, in her opinion, good on the whole. The local paper had taken a somewhat tongue-in-cheek attitude since the owner was a rampant right-wing conservative, but she had expected that. What was more important was that the dailies in the larger towns and cities surrounding them had picked up the story. People were always more impressed when a local happening made headlines outside the area.

  There seemed to be a weather change in the state toward environmental issues. For decades such concerns had taken a backseat to progress and big business. In the past year or two, however, there had been growing attention paid to questions of water pollution, chemical dumping, and the loss of the wetlands that were the habitat for a large portion of the migratory birds of North America. Cammie thought her championing of the woodpeckers, and the reservations she had expressed about selective water and land use, had tapped into this trend.

  Another indication that she was making a difference had been the telephone calls in the last few days. There had been a half-dozen from people applauding her willingness to take a stand, and four from people who wanted to get involved and help her make a difference. There had also been four from men and women anxious to let her know how shortsighted they felt she was being with her campaign, plus a couple of heavy breathers who sounded more angry than turned on.

  Cammie wondered, as she left the house for a gathering of the Pine Tree Festival Committee downtown, if Reid had seen any of the papers or heard the comments on the news. She hoped he had, and that he choked on them. He would find out how serious she was about fighting him on this issue.

  She still seethed at his nerve in showing up the night of her meeting. It was nearly as upsetting as his suggestion that she was using her opinions on trees and birds as a shield against him. Where did he get off, hinting that her convictions were a mere personal convenience? She had been concerned about the place where she lived long before she ran into him in the woods at night.

  As for hiding behind the mill issue to avoid him, why should she? She had practically seduced him, hadn't she? There would have been no relationship, however impersonal, if not for her.

  She wasn't afraid of him. If she had wanted to steer clear of him after their one-night stand, she could have done it without resorting to such an elaborate ploy.

  And if he thought she was disappointed that their contact was entirely physical, that she objected to the limitations he had set, he was much mistaken. She didn't want anything more from him or any other man. There was no room in her life just now for emotional involvement.

  She liked the idea of being free, of doing exactly what she wanted, when she wanted. She enjoyed being able to come and go without questions or snide comments. She was ecstatic that she didn't have to worry about someone else's mealtimes or clothing or ideas of what she should do with her evenings. She felt as if she was beginning to take control of her own life for the first time in years.

  She didn't need a man. She certainly didn't need Reid Sayers.

  Cammie frowned as she stared through the windshield of her Cadillac. An older man in a pickup lifted the fingers of his hand from the steering wheel in a wave as he passed. She flicked her own in automatic response, though a second later realized she had no idea who the man had been.

  All right, she told herself with unflinching self-knowledge, she had missed Reid. She found herself thinking of him at odd moments, of things he had said, expressions that had passed across his face, the way light and laughter had caught in his eyes. There were times when she could almost feel the pressure of his mouth on hers or the touch of his hands. It was a wrenching effort not to think about the hours she had spent in his arms.

  Another thing was the recognition that there was a sense of security missing from her days and nights. While he was with her, she had felt absolutely safe. With him in her bed, she'd slept better than she had in years, since she was a child.

  It was strange. Evergreen was dear and familiar, and she had seldom been actively afraid, and yet somewhere inside she must have been constantly on guard. Even when Keith had been around, she'd been uneasy. Her husband had seldom thought to check the doors and windows to see if they were locked, and was such a sound sleeper that he never heard the strange noises that disturbed her. With Reid it had been different. She'd been able to let down her guard, knowing it was not necessary. It had felt good.

  Missing a protector, however, was not the same thing as longing for a lover. Not the same thing at all.

  Oh, she could admit that the heights and depths of physical satisfaction she had reached might have had something to do with the soundness of her sleep. Certainly Reid had been far more considerate in that area than Keith had ever thought of being.

  There were a great many other things that Reid had been: strong, generous, caring, accomplished. There had been both gentle and rough magic in his arms.

  The sudden deep, pulsating ache of longing caught her by surprise. She pushed it aside with an effort. What point was there in giving it free rein, or in remembering?

  It was better to concentrate on her anger. The very idea of spying on her meeting — as if she was one of his terrorists or some other subversive threat. Where did he think he was, back in Israel? He had no right to invade her privacy and that of her guests, nor to trespass on her property.

  All the same, she could not deny that there had been a split second when she'd been relieved to see him.

  Fred Mawley could be encroaching in his smooth, persistent way. It had been all she could do to get him out of the house after the others had left. He seemed to think he was the Good Lord's special gift to Greenley's divorcées, and that she should be delighted to take off his wrapping paper. Rumor said that he could always be persuaded to take a part of his fee out in trade if a female client was even semi-attractive. From the veiled hints he had let fall, she didn't think the rumors lied.

  Conceit in a man was fast becoming a deadly sin to her. That was one thing she could not accuse Reid of. Not that she was interested in cataloging his good points. He had more than enough bad ones to keep her busy.

  She could not get the thought of Reid watching her so long ago in the woods out of her mind. She'd been so sure she was alone back then, so certain that the silly games she had played, singing to herself, flitting here and there with a piece of bed sheet tied to her shoulders like a cloak, had been unobserved. To know that he had seen her took some of the innocence from it, and yes, much of the pleasure.

  Like most only children, she had been imaginative. Possibly she had been lonely, though she was so used to it that it never occurred to her. She had made up playmates as s
he was growing up, sometimes using children from school, or else cousins she had seen at family get-togethers, sometimes creating wholly imaginary human and animal friends. The summer she was thirteen, she had pretended that there was a boy, tall, strong, blond. They had played chase, picked blackberries. She shared her lunch with him, and he lay with his head in her lap while she sat with her back to a pine tree. She had told him about her dreams and ambitions, and how much she loved the woods. He had listened and been endlessly understanding.

  Was that the summer Reid had come so close while she read? Was it possible that she had sensed his presence? Or had she caught a glimpse of him somehow without recognizing it, and incorporated him into her make-believe world? Had he heard all those silly, stupid things she had said, the plans she'd made for the future?

  It gave her cold chills just to think of it. Someplace in the back of her mind there was a slow, seeping dread that he might one day tell her he'd been there then, and overheard.

  She'd stopped going into the woods in quite that same way when she was around fifteen. Her mother, always concerned about her explorations, had sat her down and talked to her about the danger for a young woman. After that, her time in the woods had been limited to an occasional walk.

  It was probably a good thing, when all was said and done.

  No, she didn't really believe that. Despite her outrage, she couldn't believe that Reid would have harmed her.

  What would have happened if he had shown himself? Would she have accepted his company and been glad of it? Or would the old enmity between their families have made her too wary, so she took to her heels as she had at the lake? She honestly didn't know.

  Voyeur.

  The word she flung at him haunted her. She didn't actually think there was anything salacious about his watching. She had just been so disturbed to learn of it that she needed to strike back at him. That accusation had been the first weapon she could find.

  It had been effective, she thought. She'd felt his anger flowing toward her, around her, like a hot wind. There had been an instant when the skin of her neck and arms had prickled with the brush of danger. She was certain he meant to lash out, but her own fury had been so great that she hadn't cared if he did. Almost, she had wished that he would.

  And what had she done when he hadn't? She left him standing on the drive while she ran away from him again.

  Maybe, just maybe, she was afraid of him after all. Or if not of him directly, of what he might do to her life if she allowed him into it.

  She shook her head, trying to banish such thoughts. As she did, she realized she was sitting in front of the restaurant where her dinner meeting would be held. She'd been talking to herself and gripping the steering wheel as if it was a life preserver. A man and his wife had just given her a funny look, while an elderly black man had walked thirty feet out of his way to keep from passing too close to her car. With a wan smile and a sigh, she reached for her purse and climbed out of the car.

  The food served at the dinner was no better and no worse than was to be expected, consisting of mystery meat, soggy vegetables to which sugar had been added to help the taste, and a cream custard for dessert that had the consistency of library paste. At least the tea was drinkable.

  The business meeting afterward was short and effective. The chairwoman, Wen Marston, put forth several suggestions for the festival coming up in two months. Nobody objected, but nobody volunteered for the work, either. The chairwoman ran a gimlet eye over the gathering, choosing her victims. As soon as these had been strong-armed into agreeing to head the various job committees, the meeting was adjourned and the socializing began.

  Cammie stood talking and laughing for several minutes with Angelica Emmons, the attractive black woman who was principal for the middle school, and who happened to be Persephone's daughter. When Angelica left to pick up her son, who was practicing with the school play, Cammie moved to the sideboard where the urns and pitchers holding the extra coffee and tea had been set up. Refilling her coffee cup, she was just taking a swallow when a rich contralto voice spoke behind her.

  “What's this I hear about you developing a sudden love for peckers?”

  Cammie choked and coughed, only just preventing herself from spraying coffee by clamping her hand over her mouth. She turned accusing and watery eyes on the woman who had spoken.

  Wen Marston was Cammie's fourth or fifth cousin on her father's side. Her name was actually Gwendolyn, but she hated it with a passion and threatened bodily damage to anybody dumb enough to use it. Tall, rotund, and round-faced, she wore her hair twisted in a bun on top of her head. She was loud, pushy, and sometimes ribald, and she had a heart like warm butter. Wen knew everybody in town, in part because she was active in local affairs, but mainly because of an intense interest in people as subjects of conversation. She was Cammie's partner in the antique shop. She was also a superactive member for whatever group she happened to join, usually bulldozing her way into office. She ran the Pine Tree Festival Association with an iron hand.

  Cammie, trying to make herself understood between coughing and the other woman's hearty wallops between her shoulder blades, said, “Woodpeckers, Wen, woodpeckers.”

  “Ah, rats. I guess I should have known it was nothing so exciting, not you, not in Greenley. Now in New Orleans—”

  “Nothing happened in New Orleans,” Cammie said in haste and with emphasis.

  “Did I say it did? Lord, but you're touchy.” Wen's voice dripped insinuation and she opened her eyes wide. “I hear old Keith's fit to be tied about your little escapade Way Down Yonder in the Big Easy. That'll teach the son-of-a-gun to go chasing after sweet young things — and getting caught.”

  “It's nothing to do with him,” Cammie protested.

  “No? Then I'm all confused. If you didn't go to New Orleans with Reid Sayers to get back at Keith, it must have been because you fancied the guy. And if that's so, why the devil are you taking the woodpeckers' side against him now?”

  “I didn't — it isn't like that.”

  Wen rolled her eyes. “Right. Keep your secrets, then; see if I care.”

  “There's nothing personal between me and Reid,” Cammie said firmly. “I'm simply opposing him about selling the mill.”

  “Come on, Cammie, don't give me that; this is old Wen you're talking to. You're gorgeous, and a free woman — well, almost — and he's an unattached male of better than average looks and prospects. It's a natural.”

  “A natural what?”

  “Bedtime story. What do you think? And I wouldn't blame you one bit. I got myself a good look at him again at the meeting last night, first time since high school. He was quite a hunk back then, but honey, let me tell you — I have to say he's something else now. He can park his boots under my bed anytime.”

  For a single moment Cammie felt a jarring tremor of something remarkably like jealousy. Then it was wiped from her mind. “Meeting?” she demanded. “Did you say meeting?”

  “You didn't know? Reid invited all the mill employees and their families to a big fish fry at the mill camp on the lake — my baby brother Stevie let me tag along; he works in the instrument department, you know? Well, Reid got up in front of everybody and really leveled with them, just like his old man used to do.”

  Cammie clenched her hands on her coffee cup. She took a quick sip before she asked, “What did he have to say?”

  “Just that he knew everybody had been hearing rumors and he wanted to set the record straight. He admitted that an offer had been made for the mill, but said a decision was still a long way off. He mentioned feasibility studies, comprehensive audits, and a lot of paperwork to be done before anything concrete happens. In the meantime, he promised that he's doing his best to keep everybody's best interests in mind, and that everybody's job will be safe, no matter what.”

  “That — That rat!” Cammie exclaimed.

  Wen stared at her an instant. “All right, come on. Give. What did he do? I know he spent the night at your ho
use, because Keith told Steve, and Steve never kept a secret in his life, not from his big sister. Did he run out on you?”

  Cammie put a hand to her forehead, then pressed her eyes where a headache was beginning. “Is that what everybody thinks, that this is some sort of woman-scorned thing?”

  “I never said that, honey,” Wen objected, reaching out to touch Cammie's arm in reassurance. “For all I know, the man took advantage of you and you're too nice to get back at him any other way.”

  “Oh, God,” Cammie moaned in wry distress for the community imagination. “That isn't the way it was, either. Why in the world can't people mind their own business!”

  “So all right, I can take a hint,” Wen said with a pretense of huffiness. “Changing the subject, I wanted a word with you about this business with the meetings and the press and all. I am hurt to the quick that you didn't wait till I got back to go with it.”

  Wen had been away for several days on one of her regular jaunts to antique jewelry shows, buying and selling in a segment of the antique business she used to cover her personal finances. Cammie searched the other woman's face, trying to decide if she was serious, or if she should wait for the joke. “I might have, if I had known you were really interested.”

  “I'm always interested, you know that. Nothing sends me up like making trouble. I hear you've got things stirred up pretty good.”

  “Have I?” The taste of the coffee was suddenly bitter. She looked around for a place to put her cup.

  Wen took it from her and plopped it unceremoniously on the seat of the nearest chair. “You've got the town fathers wetting their pants, honey, afraid you're going to screw up the deal that will bring them in all the lovely moolah — they can just see themselves collecting the check for all the extra taxes a bigger operation will have to pay. I heard one of them call you a crazy bitch yesterday. That means they're scared.”

  “Of me?”

  “Why not? You've got it all together: money, connections, background, looks. Hell, you could run for mayor and probably get it.”