Hearts

by Stef Ann Holm

  “Of course it is.”

  “What do you need a book for anyway?” He came farther into the room, and Truvy had to try to quell the leap to her pulse. She refused to move the closer he got to her. “I thought you were a great dancer.”

  “I am. You said so yourself.”

  Mere inches separated them now; she had to remind herself to breathe. The color of his eyes reminded Truvy of the hue of frost-touched leaves, a green-and-silver combination. “What’s this geisha dance and how come you know it?”

  She liked that she’d made him curious. A quiver of a smile touched her mouth. His wonderment gave her confidence. She played up the situation oh-so-nonchalantly and walked to the Victrola.

  Keeping her tone breezy, she said, “I told you, it’s a dance I learned in college.” Little had she known at the time that her big failure with Miss Pond would one day help her. “Its elements are extremely guarded among geisha.”

  “Geisha are women of ill repute, you know.”

  His knowledge threw her off kilter. How did he know that? “Not the geisha in this dance. They’re tea servers and fan—fanners.”

  Jake came to stand beside her, and she stiffened. The lingering scent of shaving lotion on his skin, along with the saltiness of sweat, came to her nose. She looked up, only briefly, and noticed his hair was a little damp; the collar of his shirt was rimmed by moisture. He must have been pummeling that punching bag of his when Dance Fundamentals shot through his open doorway. He had a stubborn, arrogant face. Why was it he could look so rough and unruly and be so . . . So handsome?

  Clearly, she couldn’t think straight when he stood this close.

  Truvy picked up her schedule book and pen, pretending she had to write some notes. She pulled the cap off the fountain pen and began to scribble on a clean page, not letting Jake see over her shoulder.

  “Who do you have written in that book?” Jake’s face loomed over her as he tried to sneak a look. She held the open binding close to her breasts. “Tell me the name of the man who wants to know this geisha dance. Is it Milton Burditt? Because if it is, you should know he’s married.”

  Truvy had to cut off a laugh. Milton Burditt?!

  “Oh, it’s not him,” she remarked slowly, actually enjoying that she was putting Jake in a place few—if any—women had ever done. “The gentleman doesn’t live in town. He’s a city man and travels a lot.”

  Jake practically pressed his body against hers. She gripped the schedule book tighter. “Let me see that.”

  “Really, Mr. Brewster, you most certainly cannot.” For good measure, she made another false notation. “This is private.”

  “I don’t believe you have a man coming.”

  “I do.”

  “Then I’ll wait and meet him.”

  “You will not!”

  “Then let me see that book.”

  Suddenly, they both had their hands on the book and were engaged in a tug of war—and then an explosion of blue ink shot from the tip of the fountain pen. Truvy instantly quit struggling, a horrified scream welling up in her throat. It didn’t leave her mouth; she was too stunned to shriek.

  She let Jake have the scheduling book. Apprehensively, she cast her gaze down, and she saw what she feared most—a large blotch of blue ink. Right on the center front of the dress. The bodice carried an irregular blob, too. The gathers of the skirt were splattered. And already, the midnight blue seeped into the combined seams of bodice and skirt.

  The dress was ruined, utterly ruined.

  “Oh . . . no . . .” was all she could manage in a choked voice. Thoughts of Mrs. Plunkett flashed in her head. The woman was going to be beyond distraught; she’d be offended to the highest order. And after that morning’s events, Mrs. Plunkett would be hard pressed to believe Truvy had had a mishap with her pen.

  “I’m sorry. Really sorry.” Jake set the scheduling book on top of the Victrola, the page she’d tried so hard to hide now exposed.

  “What am I going to tell Mrs. Plunkett?” she asked. “She’s going to be terribly upset. She’ll think I did it on purpose.”

  “Mrs. Plunkett?”

  “Yes! Mrs. Plunkett!” Truvy shouted, no longer attempting to cover the fact she’d been cajoled into wearing a juvenile dress just to satisfy an elder woman’s fancy. “She bought this for me, and it meant a lot to her that I wear it. Now what am I going to do?”

  Jake raked a hand through his hair, then scratched his jaw. “I’ll explain it was an accident.”

  “Don’t you dare,” Truvy said levelly. She expelled a weak breath of frustration. “You’d only make things worse. A man in my studio, alone with me? It would be scandalous.”

  His brows pitching together, Jake contradicted her. “But you said you had a man coming for your lesson.”

  Truvy’s lips clamped shut.

  Right then, Jake’s gaze shot to the open scheduling book. Directly onto one of the Katzenjammer Kids she’d poorly drawn to throw Jake off the truth. She was a good teacher. She was a bad artist when it came to funny-paper characters.

  Jake grew thoughtfully quiet.

  After a moment, he softly said, “Ah, Truvy, you don’t have to make up things for me. I know you’re pretty enough to have men want to spend time with you. And you’re a decent woman, too, for wearing a dress that’s—” He stopped.

  A dress that’s degrading.

  She didn’t dare meet his eyes. She felt her own betraying her, growing hot and moist at the most inopportune time.

  “Truvy.” His utterance of her name was a caress.

  She kept her chin down.

  Then he gently coaxed her by saying, “Tru. Look at me.” She found herself staring into his sensual eyes. “Would you come to dinner tonight at the restaurant?”

  A heartfelt sincerity marked his words, but fearfulness seeped into her consciousness. No. She couldn’t go. Because she couldn’t trust herself to be with him. Even in a public place. He tempted her. He teased her. He wittingly, and unwittingly, toyed with her emotions.

  Using every ounce of willpower she possessed, she untangled her gaze from Jake’s. “No.”

  Knowing Jake’s compelling face remained above hers riveted her to the spot. His nearness was overwhelming. The vitality radiating from his body captivated the pulse point at her throat. Her instinctive response was to tilt her head higher so his lips could touch hers.

  What was she doing? This was crazy.

  Slowly, she lifted her chin. Then his mouth covered her mouth. Briefly. Hypnotically. Nothing like the kiss at Tom and Edwina’s house. This was a whisper of mouth over mouth. Just a light touch. A testing of responses. An igniting of senses. “Say yes.”

  The vibration of his words went to her soul.

  “No,” she replied, even though her heart lurched.

  Jake pulled back, the posture of his shoulders hard and set. “Are you a member of the Idaho Women Suffrage Association?”

  His question was as unexpected as a snowstorm on an August day. She felt as if she’d been doused with a chilling brace of ice water. “Am I a what?”

  “A member of the Idaho—”

  “Yes, I heard you,” she replied, angry with herself that she’d been swept into his kiss, only to be deprived of it as quickly. Confusion made her heartbeat settle down to its normal cadence. “And no, I’m not.”

  “Then you aren’t—excuse the expression—all piss and swagger.”

  “I beg your pardon.” Agitation worked up her spine as she held herself straight and unyielding, giving him The Aunts’ famous oration: “A woman can be whatever a woman wants to be in this day and age. I don’t need to belong to any club to validate my modern views—so long as I’m getting a fair chance.”

  “Good. Then give me a fair chance.”

  Her mouth dropped open. She’d walked right into the trap he’d set for her.

  Right into another kiss.

  Jake’s mouth covered hers once more, opening her lips and touching her with his tongue. S
he hesitated, blinking, then opening her eyes wide. She wasn’t prepared, didn’t know what to expect. Certainly not this. The smooth stroke of his tongue felt like an artful dance step.

  She knew Jake could execute a flawless waltz, so she let herself dissolve into his kiss while his tongue slid over the soft interior of her mouth. She stopped breathing. In the quiet, she heard the thump of Jake’s heartbeat. Could feel it against her palm where she’d raised both hands and laid them on the solid wall of his chest—to keep him away. No, to keep herself away from him.

  She let him explore and probe. And boldly, brazenly, she returned what he gave—she kissed him back in the same manner. A secret thrill tingled over her skin as she matched the sweep of his tongue through her mouth. At first, her strokes were tentative, curious—then enraptured.

  This kind of kissing wasn’t mentioned in The Science of Life.

  In fact, kissing had gone unnamed, as had—pretty much—women’s needs: A well-bred woman’s sexual desire is small. If this were not so, the whole world would become a brothel and marriage and family impossible.

  If that were true, then how could she be doing this? And enjoying it?

  Finally, she remembered to breathe through her nose. Her knees grew weaker. She could barely comprehend what she was feeling. The juncture of their mouths was so sensual, so intimate, and so expressive that she uttered an inarticulate cry.

  Jake stopped kissing her momentarily, and then his voice rumbled through her fingertips where they lay on his rock-hard muscles. “Say you’ll have dinner with me.”

  “I . . .” She was lost in a haze clouding her mind.

  “Say yes.”

  She should say no. She should remain firm. She should—

  “What time?”

  Chapter

  12

  C old air absorbed the warmth from Jake’s cheeks and numbed his nose. Leaning a shoulder against the trunk of an elm tree at the Plunketts’ curb, he thought about lighting a smoke but refrained. Even the smallest flame in the dark would carry. He didn’t want to be seen by anyone in the house

  Truvy wouldn’t let him collect her at the door. She told him she’d meet him at the restaurant at six o’clock. She needed time to soothe Mrs. Plunkett after she confessed about the dress, and it was better not to have a caller at the house the same evening. Truvy didn’t come right out and say it, but he knew how Prudence Plunkett felt about him. She didn’t like him. Hell, she disliked men in general. Truvy reasoned that by her entering the restaurant a few minutes after him, their dinner together wouldn’t appear prearranged.

  The whole “chance encounter” thing rubbed Jake the wrong way.

  But it didn’t much matter because they weren’t going to Nannie’s after all. Only Truvy didn’t know that yet. That’s why Jake was standing outside instead of staying warm in the heated eatery. He planned on ambushing her when she left the porch.

  That afternoon, as soon he’d seen Truvy searching for her dance book wearing that girlish dress, he’d abandoned any thoughts he’d entertained about satisfying a recklessly made bet. When he’d asked her to dinner, the wager had been a distant memory in his mind. If he’d had lingering ulterior motives, every last one vanished during their kiss. The touch of Truvy’s lips, the feel of her body, the pressure of her hands on his chest, the silkiness of her tongue in his mouth—the combination had rendered him incapable of logic and made him impulsive.

  Impulsively stupid.

  He could just see Milton or Lou smashing a face next to the window of Nannie’s to spy on him and Truvy to see if Jake had won the bet. But where else could he take her? The place would have to be respectable yet discreet enough so the boys wouldn’t find out he and Truvy had gone out together. He didn’t have many options.

  Durbin’s ice cream parlor was a worthy choice. Too bad it was in plain view of the town square and always had customers at the soda counter. Tom and Edwina’s would be a good solution. But Jake didn’t want to make social talk and vie for Truvy’s attention. The only two other places he could think of were the Blue Flame Saloon and Dutch’s Poolroom.

  Neither would fly with a lady.

  He’d already done enough to cause her resentment with that fountain pen. Earlier, he’d gone to Edwina’s and borrowed a dress from her for Truvy to wear during her dance class, a class that didn’t include Milton Burditt—or any men. It was a group of Miss Gimble’s schoolkids.

  After her class had let out, he’d returned to the studio and been insistent on walking her home, but she wouldn’t bend. He’d wanted to tell Mrs. Plunkett how the ink spot on the pink dress happened. Truvy emphatically—a word he now knew the strength behind—refused.

  Worse yet, that was when she’d insisted on meeting him at the restaurant or else she wouldn’t go. She didn’t want him to corroborate her explanation and further complicate matters.

  corroborate: confirm; strengthen; establish; verify.

  Hell, he was going to make something up. He’d say he’d been watching Truvy through the window and saw her trip while holding the fountain pen. Ink came out of the nub and the front of her dress got the short end of the stick.

  Maybe that wasn’t the best story, but because Truvy didn’t want to go for what really happened, at least his lie had some credence. Mrs. Plunkett was enrolled in the academy and had firsthand experience with Truvy’s footwork expertise.

  A cold wind gusted, shaking the bare branches of trees lining either side of Elm Street. Jake ran his pocket-warm fingers over the neatly blocked brim of his hat, making sure the stiff black derby stayed on his head.

  He glanced at the house once more. Lights were on inside. From what he could tell, they were in the parlor. Because the night was cold and threatened snow, he wore his long sealskin coat, Levi’s, and low-ankle storm boots. It had taken him a while to figure out which shirt to put on and whether he should add a string tie.

  After fifteen minutes debating with himself, he decided to forget the tie. He hated any kind of neck-wear. But he did pick out a dark gray flannel shirt, iron the sleeves and collar to an A-1 grade, and give himself a close shave.

  Shadows created by evergreens and scalloped canvas window awnings played over the street. Jake regretted not carrying a watch. What time was it? He began to wonder if Truvy was ever going to step outside.

  Maybe she’d changed her mind—

  “Bruiser,” came a hoarse whisper. “Hey, Bruiser!”

  Jake was a big man, and anybody with half a brain would never consider putting the jump on him. He swung his body around, hands raised and ready, but then he saw who’d called him. Lowering his arms, he swore. “Dammit, Milt! I could have knocked your lights out.”

  Milton lurked behind a lodgepole electric line post across the street from the Plunketts’. With Jake’s attention on him, he skulked forward and asked in a whisper, “Where’s Miss Valentine?”

  Jake wasn’t expecting a cutoff at the pass. He’d figured the boys would stake out only the restaurant, not where Truvy was staying. He had to think fast. “Well, Milt, you caught me.” Inflecting heavy disappointment in his voice, he stated, “She won’t come to the door to talk to me, so I guess you boys win the bet and I’ll be eating my own cooking tonight.”

  “I knew it! Beers for us. And you know the brand I like.”

  “I do, Milt.” You slice of cheese.

  Milt rubbed his hands together, steaming breath escaping his mouth. “I told them we’d win.”

  “And you were right.”

  “Indeed I was.” Milton shoved his hands into the pocket lining of his business coat. “Cold night.”

  “Sure is.”

  “I reckon I’ll go home now that I know the outcome.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Yeah.”

  Neither of them moved.

  Jake held onto an oath. He cocked the angle of his hat, then pushed off into the night pretending to be on his way. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Milton had turned around and headed in the opposi
te direction for his house on Sycamore Drive. Slowing his steps, Jake kept watch; then within seconds, he ducked behind the snow-dusted hedges of the Higginses’ house. The flare of gaslights illuminated the front room. From behind the frothy parlor-window curtains, a hairy face stared at him.

  An Airedale terrier.

  The Higginses had an ankle biter that peed on every hydrant in Harmony when he busted out of his yard. Jake liked dogs, but not this one. Especially now, because the Airedale began to yap at him and scratch on the curtains and glass. Higgins appeared in the window, fisted the sheer panel, and yanked it to the side so he could see out.

  “Jesus,” Jake mumbled, then took off in a sprint through the bushes as he cut across the yard into the Elward property. He clipped the corner to the Brookses’, then ended up back at the Plunketts’ in their side yard just as the front door opened and closed.

  Jake held back to see who walked to the gate. From the decorated hat, he knew the person was a woman. From the height, there was no mistaking Truvy Valentine. She’d barely raised a gloved hand when he drew up to her and disengaged the latch.

  A startled cry escaped her as she turned and recognized him. “Jake.”

  “Come on.” He took her by the elbow and practically dragged her into the night—away from the street where the restaurant was located.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Change of plans.”

  “Wh-what?” she stammered with distress. The uneasy tone of her voice didn’t escape his attention.

  Just around Birch Avenue and a short distance from the Plunketts’ was the law office of Alastair Stykem. Jake stopped at the indented entrance to the granite-fronted building and took Truvy into the niche.

  Even in the dim night, he could see the whites of her eyes, the sweep of her lashes as she blinked in confusion—in ire. He was gripping her shoulders and softened his hold. “Sorry.”

  “I told you I’d meet you at the restaurant.” She frowned. “Why are we standing here?”

  He had to tell her about the bet. She’d probably slap him. He wouldn’t blame her. But he owed her the truth about why they weren’t going to Nannie’s for a nice supper. “The thing of it is—” He quit the thought.