"Sammie-Jo's little friend. Faith, I think her name is." Jill paused, giving him a chance to deny it. "She's a little young for you, isn't she?" she said, when he didn't.
"She's way too young for me," he said wearily. "And she isn't even remotely my type," he added, trying to make himself believe it.
But his gaze was already drifting back toward her as he spoke, inexorably drawn by whatever it was that called to him so strongly. He barely noticed when Jill Mickelson left his side.
* * *
I should be having the time of my life, Faith thought. Here I am, at a real party, with dancing and music, and three handsome, charming guys my own age who actually seem to enjoy talking to me. No one was telling her what she could or couldn't do. No one was making her feel guilty about having a little harmless fun. No one was threatening dire consequences if she dared to disgrace the family again. She should have been in seventh heaven.
She was miserable.
Because the only handsome, charming man she was interested in talking to had been more interested in talking to another woman. A beautiful woman. A woman closer to his own age. A woman with experience. And style. And verve. And—
"Can I get you a drink, Faith?" one of the young men asked. "A glass of wine?"
Faith hesitated for a moment. She'd tasted wine just once before, at a church social when her cousin Martin had smuggled in a bottle and dared her to try it. The taste had been awful, and the fear that her father might smell that one sip on her breath negated any guilty pleasure she might have felt. But her father wasn't here now. And Jill Mickelson had been drinking wine.
Faith smiled up at the young man who'd asked her the question, consciously trying to copy one of Sammie-Jo's flirtatious expressions. "Yes, please, Dennis," she said, determined to gain some of that experience everybody seemed to think she was lacking. "I'd like that."
* * *
From his position under the shadow of the balcony, his shoulder propped against the wall, Jack watched her accept the plastic cup of wine from the clean-cut, muscle-bound kid who'd handed it to her. He watched as she took a cautious sip, smiling a little when she grimaced at the taste. Cheap boxed wine wasn't, he thought, the best introduction to the wine maker's art. But she smiled at the young man who stood hovering over her, obviously assuring him it was fine, and took another determined sip. The young man laughed, charmed—as who wouldn't be, Jack thought sourly—by her innocent sweetness.
The group stood talking, laughing and drinking their wine for a while longer, their words indistinguishable through the blare of rock music. Jack recognized Foghat's "Slow Ride" and The Rolling Stones' mindless "Satisfaction" and tried to tell himself he was lingering for the music and the memories it evoked, but that was a lie. Whatever pleasant memories he had of that time in his life had been overshadowed and soured by Eric's death. And if it was really the music he was interested in, he could hear it from his apartment. At decibels less likely to make his head throb.
Faith didn't need a watchdog. And he didn't need to be hovering around her like some pervert casing a playground.
He was just about to turn and go inside, leaving them to it, when the music segued into "Under The Boardwalk," a mid-sixties time by The Drifters. It was a pleasant, catchy song with recognizable lyrics and a slow calypso beat. Faith's new admirer leaned over and whispered in her ear.
She looked up, startled, and shook her head.
The young man leaned closer and spoke again, adding what Jack was sure he thought was an enticing smile as he reached out to rim a fingertip down her arm from shoulder to elbow.
A muscle jerked in Jack's jaw but he made himself stay where he was. Faith didn't need rescuing, he told himself. She might not even want rescuing. The man was young and attractive, if a little narrow between the eyes. Faith might very well be flattered by his attention.
But he relaxed, just a tiny bit, as Faith's chin lifted in automatic answer to the other man's presumption. She backed away a half step, preparing to use her newly learned, advance discouraging glare, when Sammie-Jo added her two cents to the discussion, obviously agreeing with whatever the muscle-bound hulk had said. Faith hesitated, her indecision and discomfort evident even to a blind man, Jack thought. Couldn't they see she didn't want to do whatever had been suggested? And then she shrugged and smiled, nodding her head in agreement.
She started to hand her glass of wine to Sammie-Jo, then changed her mind and lifted it to her lips instead, draining it in one long gulp. Tossing the empty glass into a nearby trash can with the air of someone who'd just thrown caution to the wind, she turned and put her hand in the hulk's. He led her to the makeshift dance floor, a cleared space between the chaise lounges and patio tables, and took her into his arms.
Jack's teeth clenched together so hard his jaw ached. His first impulse was to storm across the courtyard and tear them apart. How dare that hulking behemoth put his hands on her. How dare she let him.
Dammit, he thought, furious, I should be the one teaching her to dance.
I wish Jack were the one teaching me to dance, Faith thought, smiling vaguely up at the young man who held her without quite meeting his eyes. She was sure she would have been more at ease in Jack's arms, instead of feeling compelled to hold herself so stiffly. Her partner was trying to press her too close to his big body, and he was breathing too hard. She was sure Jack wouldn't be trying to plaster his body to hers from thigh to chest. Nor would he be breathing his hot breath all over her neck, panting like one of her brother's winded coon hounds after a chase.
"Come on, Faith," Dennis said, giving her a squeeze. "Relax. You're stiff as a board."
Faith tried to comply, she really did, but it was hard to relax when she was in danger of having the breath squeezed out of her. "You're holding me too tight," she complained softly, pushing against his shoulders in an effort to loosen his hold.
"I'm supposed to be holding you tight. We're slow dancing."
How can this be dancing? she wondered. We're hardly even moving our feet.
"I can't breathe," she said into his shoulder.
Dennis laughed at that, as if she'd made a joke, and pressed her closer. His hand slid to the small of her back, well below the waistband of her jeans, and she felt his pelvis grind against hers. She stiffened even more, trying to tip her hips back and away, but he didn't seem to notice.
Maybe, she thought, her father had been right about the evils of dancing after all. It certainly wasn't as much fun as she'd always thought it would be.
She slid her hands off of her partner's shoulders, drawing her elbows and forearms in against his chest in an effort to put a little space between them. He apparently took her maneuvering as encouragement and lifted his head from her neck to nuzzle her ear.
"You're awfully sweet," he murmured, his voice thick and a bit slurred. "How'd you get to be so sweet?"
Oh, my God, Faith thought, repulsed, is that his tongue in my ear?!
She was just about to try stepping on his feet in an effort to free herself when she felt his head lift and his hold loosen slightly. She drew her arms even further between them, taking the opportunity to give herself some breathing room, and shifted her hips back so they weren't pressed against his. Now, if she could just hold him off until the song was over, she would never even think about learning to dance ever again.
And then, suddenly, he let her go completely. "Yeah, sure, she's all yours," she heard him say and she looked up to find Jack standing where Dennis had just been.
"May I have this dance?" he said and opened his arms.
Without a word, Faith stepped trustingly into his embrace, her hands lifting to his shoulders as if she'd done it a hundred times before. He caught one hand in his, lacing their fingers together as he slid his other arm around her and settled his palm against her back in the classic dance posture. He held her close, but not too close, leaving enough space between them so he could look down into her eyes.
She smiled.
And he
smiled.
And they began to move, slowly, swaying to the easy, sensual beat of the music. She followed him easily, guided by the hand on her back and the deliberate way he executed the steps for her. When she caught the rhythm, her steps matching his with growing confidence, he pulled her a bit closer and began to vary the simple back and forth motion of the slow cha-cha. Faith gave a soft laugh, the sound low and breathy, her eyes shining with delight as she gazed up at him.
Jack resisted the urge to crush her to him. "Having fun?" he asked.
"Oh, yes. I didn't think I was going to like dancing," she admitted, darting a quick mutinous glance at her previous partner, "but this is wonderful."
Jack laughed and pulled her closer, executing a slightly more complicated variation of the step as an excuse for his actions.
Faith's breath caught in her throat as her breasts brushed against the hard wall of his chest. Jack faltered, losing the rhythm of their steps. They stood stock-still in the near embrace of the dance, staring. Everything else—the music, the laughter of other people, the scents of fast food and night-blooming flowers—everything faded into insignificance around them. They were aware only of each other, saw only each other. The air grew thick between them, heavy with words unspoken, desires unmet, longings unfurling into heated life. So many longings. And needs... Needs neither had even known they had before that moment.
The lighthearted little song came to an end while they stood there, lost in each other, and another started playing. Something slow and passionate, the words describing the indescribable yearning of a man aching for a woman just out of his reach. "Goin' Out of My Head" by Little Anthony and the Imperials. How appropriate, Jack thought. He'd started losing his mind the minute she looked up at him with those gold-flecked eyes of hers.
"Jack," she said softly. It was a question. And an invitation.
He uttered a shaky, strangled sound, halfway between a groan and a rueful laugh. "You shouldn't look at me like that, Angel."
"Like what?"
"Just close your eyes," he murmured. Please. Maybe he could keep his head if she closed her eyes. If she stopped looking at him as if she'd like to eat him alive. He put his hand on the back of her head, bringing it down to his shoulder so he wouldn't be tempted by the look in her too expressive eyes.
Faith sighed and closed her eyes, nestling into him with all the confidence of a beloved and loving child.
Don't, he wanted to say to her. Don't trust me. But he folded his arms around her, gathering her close to his heart, and lay his cheek against her hair. The song melted into another, and then another, and still they swayed, barely moving, completely oblivious to changes in tempo or speed, lost in their own little world.
Faith marveled at the differences between this embrace and all the others she had ever experienced. Jack was holding her just as close as Dennis had done. His breath was just as warm. His body just as hard and unyielding and male. But she didn't feel smothered or overwhelmed, or pressured to respond in any way. She felt cherished. And protected. And safe. So unutterably safe, cradled, oh so gently, in the hard circle of his enveloping arms. And then she felt his lips move against her temple, whisper soft, and she wanted more than safety and gentleness from him.
She stirred restlessly in his embrace, seeking something she had neither the words nor the experience to ask for. She rubbed her cheek against his T-shirt clad shoulder, like a cat asking to be stroked, and flexed her fingers against the hard muscles of his chest.
Jack's arms tightened around her. "Be still," he murmured raggedly, fighting for control.
Her answer was a plaintive murmur of dissent and the soft press of her breasts against his chest as she slipped her arms around his back and nestled closer.
Jack moaned in defeat and desire and bent his head lower, burrowing through her hair to press his face against the curve of her neck. His lips touched warm flesh and, helplessly, he opened his mouth to taste her.
Faith felt the dampness of his lips and tongue against her skin and shivered in response, unconsciously letting her head fall back to give him better access. He cupped her skull in his palms, supporting its weight, and ran his tongue up the delicate arch of her throat.
"Jack," she sighed, her voice rife with longing. "Jack."
"Dammit, Faith, I'm no good for you," he growled, low, but his tone made the harsh words a caress. "I've done things and seen things you can't possibly imagine. I'm too old for you. I—Faith, dammit, open your eyes and look at me."
She lifted her lids with ponderous slowness, looking up at him through eyes made slumberous and heavy with desire. "Jack," she murmured.
He stared down at her for a long moment, frozen with indecision and guilt. And then she parted her lips slightly, her tongue peeking out as if to taste the kiss he hadn't yet given her, and he was lost.
A low sound, half pain, half pleasure, rumbled in his chest. "I'll probably burn in hell for this," he growled, his voice savage, his mouth so close his lips brushed hers as he spoke. "But I can only resist just so much temptation. And you, Angel—Dammit, you I can't resist at all," he groaned, and took her mouth with his.
Chapter 6
There was no escaping her, Jack thought, disgruntled and on edge as he prowled through his darkened apartment, searching for surcease from the desire that clawed at him. Evidence of Faith's presence was in every room, on every surface, in the very air he breathed. Mirrors and windows sparkled, even in the dim light. Hardwood floors gleamed. The furniture smelled of lemon oil. The sheets on his bed and the towels in his bathroom carried the faint perfume of flower-scented fabric softener. She'd taken the time to impose order on his bookcases, too, while she was cleaning. Not only were the books dust free, but they were upright and arranged separately from the videotapes and CDs, with space found for neat stacks of magazines, which—he knew because he stopped, midprowl, to check—were shelved according to the date of publication.
Jack struggled with the childish urge to yank them out of the bookcase and fling them on the floor, leaving her handiwork in as much of a mess as she'd left his libido. He stifled it and stomped through the dining room into the kitchen instead, whacking his shin on her cart of cleaning supplies as he rounded the counter. With an oath, he shoved it aside and reached out, flicking on the overhead light. Her pink sponge was perched on the edge of the sink. Her yellow rubber gloves were arranged, side by side on the counter. Her flowered apron lay in a crumbled heap on the floor. Jack bent over and picked it up, intending to toss it on the counter with the other tools of her trade, and found himself lifting it to his nose instead. It smelled faintly of lemon cleanser and fabric softener and that same elusive fragrance that had invaded his senses when he'd buried his face in the curve of her neck.
Innocence.
Sweetness.
Warmth.
"Oh, don't be a jackass, Shannon," he muttered savagely.
Innocence didn't have a scent, unless you were talking about babies. Sweetness was for fresh-baked cinnamon buns or caramel corn. And warmth didn't smell, unless something was burning.
As he was burning.
And she had been burning.
He looked down to find that he'd crushed the apron in his fists and, very deliberately, relaxed his grip.
She'd been right to call a halt to things. Absolutely right. He'd let it go too far. No matter that she had been willing, even eager, up until the point when she suddenly froze on him. Her actions only meant that she had come to her senses a moment before he had.
But, God, he wished she'd remained insensible and unaware just a little longer. He'd barely had a chance to taste her lips before she'd made a muffled sound against his mouth and stiff-armed him, pushing out of his embrace. He'd held on for a moment longer than he should have, surprised by her unexpected action. Instead of fighting to free herself, though, she just stood there, docile as a chastened child under his hands after that first initial action. The expression in her gold-flecked eyes wasn't outrage or embarrassme
nt or even fear, as he half expected. It was anger. Anger laced with resentment, tinged with guilt. The guilt he could understand, given what he'd learned of her background during the last two days. But the anger? That made as little sense to him now as it had when he'd rescued her from the clutches of Freddie Bowen. For the life of him, he couldn't figure out why she should be mad at him in either circumstance.
He'd started to say something, to ask for explanations or to point out, perhaps, that he had only done what she'd invited him to do, and damn reluctantly at that. But he'd opened his hands instead, letting her go without a word. She'd turned and hurriedly walked away, not stopping and not looking back. Except for Sammie-Jo, who'd shot him a wary glance before following Faith into the building, no one seemed to notice what had happened. Which wasn't really surprising, given the circumstances. A little discreet necking on a dance floor certainly wasn't enough to claim more than a fleeting moment of anyone's attention with the crowd in the courtyard. And there'd been no outcry or undignified struggle when it ended. She hadn't dissolved into hysterics. And he'd managed not to howl with frustration.
Telling himself that it had happened for the best, Jack very deliberately folded the apron in half and draped it over the edge of Faith's metal utility cart. Grabbing up her sponge and rubber gloves, he dropped them on top of her other supplies, then pushed the cart next to the wall where it would be safely out of the way, and started to make coffee.
It would probably keep him awake but he figured his body wasn't going to let him sleep, anyway, especially not on sheets Faith had scented with fabric softener and smoothed on his bed with her own hands. Besides, he really needed to work. Work always took him out of himself, making him forget whatever other problems he might have.
And his dining room table with its untidy piles of paper and overflowing ashtray, its battered typewriter and cardboard box of memories was the one area Faith hadn't managed to stamp with her presence.
Lovers and Strangers (The Hollywood Nights Series, Book 1) Page 8
