by Renee Roszel
She eyed the package with distrust. “I think you’ve done way too much already.” The statement came out like an accusation.
A rueful smile edged his lips, then reached into his eyes. “Hell, it won’t bite, Luce.”
When he let her go, she tentatively accepted the diminutive package, but didn’t open it.
“Do you want the bomb squad to check it out first?”
She eyed him mistrustfully, then with an uneasy hitch of breath began to untie the pink ribbon. Once she’d removed the white paper, she lifted the lid to discover a small, golden angel pin, the halo a semicircle of tiny diamonds. Though she tried to hold on to her stern expression, she lost the battle when her gaze met his—warm and affectionate. His face grew blurry as her heart filled with gratitude. “An angel,” she murmured, wiping away a tear with the back of her hand.
“It should be no surprise by now.”
Her lips trembled into a smile. Jack had told her that the first time he saw her, when she was eight years old—with her light blond hair tumbling about her shoulders and dressed all in white—he’d thought of her as a little angel. So every year on her birthday, he’d given her some kind of angel—inexpensive trinkets, earrings, bargain-basement porcelain figurines.
When Jack was eighteen, his mother had run away with another man. Jack had been too ashamed to stay on with the Crosbys and had left with only his meager belongings. He’d gotten a job as a dishwasher in a local café, and since he’d had little money, he’d carved an angel for her eleventh birthday. Lucy never told him, but that was the angel she cherished the most. Lifting the golden pin from its box, she opened the clasp and fastened it to her blouse.
“Thank you, Jack.” This time, she managed a genuine smile. “It’s perfect.”
His lips twisted wryly. “I know. I’m a prince.”
She giggled, then sobered, shaking her head at him. “We’re in such trouble. What is it about you, Jack? Why do I feel like punching you and hugging you at the same time?”
He leaned back against the wall, watching her. “You tell me.”
She frowned at his slippery nonanswer. Even miffed at him, she moved to sit by his side. Settling back, she laced her fingers with his and squeezed. He squeezed back, and it felt nice.
This was good. This was companionable. This she understood. They were friends again. They would sit here like two old pals and think and think and think. Solve this thing once and for all.
A lot of absolute quiet took up the next fifteen minutes. Lucy hoped during all that silence that Jack was coming up with something brilliant because she was drawing a blank. At last, with a downhearted sigh, she asked, “What should we do, Jack?”
He shifted to meet her gaze. His lashes were long, yet all male. His gaze was intelligent and assessing—and stunning—as he scanned her face.
“What?” she asked, her pulse increasing. She told herself the feminine reaction was from anticipation about what he was going to suggest, not his nearness. “What have you thought of?”
“If we want Stadler to leave before Saturday...” He shifted nearer. Their bodies touched, hard communicating with soft, and she was startled by how aware she was of the minor contact. “I think,” he went on, “we should start sleeping together.”
Though Saturday was sunny and warmer, there was nothing but icy misery in Jack’s soul. He flicked his wrist to look at his watch. Ten o’clock. He had an appointment with his real-estate man in an hour. It was still too early to leave the inn. Exhaling a curse, he tried to relax in the big wicker porch chair and stared heedlessly at the manicured front yard, carved out of the surrounding wood.
He heard a sound and turned in time to see Damien seat himself in the wicker chair beside his. It was all Jack could do to acknowledge the man. Dammit! He should have left the inn, just driven around. He wasn’t in the mood for chitchat.
“So,” Damien said, “I hear you’re sleeping with Lucy.”
Jack gritted his teeth. Not only wasn’t he in the mood for chitchat, he didn’t feel like playing the part of the lascivious interloper in a confrontation with the male head of the family. He had no intention of debating any alleged deflowering of the lovely Lucy.
Setting his elbows on the chair arms, Jack templed his fingers in front of his face and counted to ten. He liked Damien and didn’t want to argue. As calmly as he could, he asked, “Where’s Stadler?”
“In Branson.” Damien crossed one leg over the other, his ankle on the opposite knee. “It seems that Sareena wants to be a singer. She wheedled at old Stad all during breakfast to take her to some shows.” He chuckled wryly. “I think they’ll be gone for a while. She’s good.”
Feeling thwarted, Jack closed his eyes. That meant they would be back. “Damn.” He cast Damien a glance out of the corner of his eye. “Look. I’m not sleeping with Lucy, so you can lose the dueling pistols. I’m using the foldout sofa in the basement sitting room. We just thought Stadler would give up his game if he knew Lucy was...” He stopped, swallowed bile, unable to say it.
“I know,” Damien said. “If she was sexually involved with somebody else.”
Jack nodded wearily. Sinking back, he rested his head on the tall chair back. He needed to get as far away from this place as he could, as soon as he could. This whole engagement plan had been a mistake. “Why can’t that ass just leave?” he muttered.
“Hey, man,” Damien said after a moment. “How about a little advice? From one man crazy in love—to another.”
Giving Damien an ominous look, Jack sat up. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Damien ran a hand through his black hair, but an unruly clump fell back across his eye patch. “I was a CNN reporter for a lot of years. I read people pretty well.” He smiled companionably. “I know you love Lucy.”
Jack’s gut clinched. It was the truth, so why did hearing it aloud unsettle him? Maybe because even when he’d first seen her and had fallen in love, he’d known that he wasn’t good enough for her. He was a dirt-poor kid with a tramp for a mother, a kid with one foot in juvenile detention.
He’d lived in a two-room walk-up where, if there wasn’t a current “daddy”, there had always been plenty of “uncles” hanging around. Oh, his mother was beautiful and had known how to work men.
She’d hit the jackpot on marriage number four, with upper-middle-class John Crosby. And for three years, Jack had had a real home, with clean sheets and three square meals a day. He’d had a stepfather who treated him like a flesh-and-blood son, and he had three stepsisters who adored him.
He hadn’t been good enough for Lucy then, so he vowed that he’d make it in the world, and when he did, he’d come back for her. Only, when he was finally ready, she was engaged to someone else.
Then suddenly, miraculously, on his impulsive visit to Branson five days ago, his chance had been dropped into his lap—a chance to show Lucy his love, to make her see that he was the right man for her. But she couldn’t see him that way. Didn’t love him the way he loved her. Hell, he wanted to get as far away from her as he could. The pain of knowing he could never have the one woman he’d ever loved was too cruel. Only now, with this engagement story, he was stuck, at least until Stadler left.
Unable to completely deny a passion that he’d carried around for so many years, he said, “I love all the Crosby girls.”
“I know you do.” Damien leaned in Jack’s direction. “They love you, too. You’re practically a saint in their eyes. You’ve always been there for them when they needed you. And that’s great as far as it goes, but...” He reached out and pressed Jack’s shoulder in a friendly gesture. “Do you know the old saying about how ‘a man chases a woman until she catches him’?”
“Sure,” Jack said, confused by the change of subject.
“Do you suppose it might work the other way around?”
“Work?”
Damien released Jack’s shoulder and stood to face him. He held out a hand and opened it, palm up. “Let’s say this i
s Lucy’s hand.” He touched his palm. “You’re right in there, Jack. She has you.” He dropped his arms to his side. “How can the poor kid discover she wants you if she already has you?”
Jack looked at Damien, dubious. “Why are you telling me this?”
Damien’s grin was wry. “Let’s say I’m not above giving fate a nudge.”
Jack grunted caustically, casting his glance away. “Fate’s going to need one hell of a big nudge. Lucy doesn’t see me as anything but a friend.”
“Trust me, Jack. You do your part, and Lucy will do hers. She won’t be able to help herself.” Mystified by the cryptic remark, Jack turned back, and Damien offered his hand. “Okay?”
Jack accepted, but continued to frown. “I don’t know what we’re shaking on, but—okay.”
Damien winked. “Any man who’s made a million bucks by the time he’s thirty-three is bright enough to figure. it out.”
When Damien reentered the inn, Jack sat back, puzzling over their conversation.
The next time he looked at his watch, thirty minutes had passed. When he got up to head into town, he was smiling.
Lucy skipped down the basement steps two at a time. Playing with the twins gave her such a lift. She burst through the basement door and spun around the corner into the sitting room that had been her bedroom before Helen left and had recently become Jack’s. It surprised her to see that he’d already folded out the sofa and was sitting in bed, covered from the waist down. Shirtless, he was going over a stack of printouts.
She scanned his upper torso, bronze and brawny in the lamplight. His chest was muscled, just silky enough with hair to make him quite a masculine picture. She felt an appreciative zing at the sight. “Aren’t you cold?” She cleared her throat, wondering why her voice had gone shrill.
He looked up from his papers. “I’m hot-blooded.” He grinned. “How were the twins?”
She laughed and came over to sit on the edge of the bed. “You mean Little Elissa One and Little Elissa Two? They’re fine.”
Jack laid aside his work. “So they’re both named after Elissa now?”
“Well, Elissa said if Damien and Helen wouldn’t tell her which one was hers, then she would claim them both.” Lucy rested on one arm, grazing his leg with her hand. “Tonight Helen was calling them Sonny and Cher. Elissa was livid.”
Jack laughed, and Lucy enjoyed watching his face. He had a great mouth, firm but kind. And his eyes. Compelling within the dark frame of his lashes. “I gather Stadler and Sareena have returned from their day in Branson?”
She sobered, nodding. “Yes. That’s why I decided I’d better come down here.” She shrugged. “You know—the sleeping-with-you thing.”
His smile faded a little. “Right.”
She glanced at the scattering of papers. “What are you doing?”
“Going over the printouts of properties for sale here in Branson.”
“You want to play some cards when you’re done?”
He grinned at her, then shook his head. “Won’t have time tonight. I need to get some work done. After I do this, there’s the usual restaurant business. You know how it is.”
She felt a rush of disappointment, but she understood. “Sure.”
He cupped her chin in his hand and eyed her closely. “You look tired. Luce. Stick out your tongue.”
She did as he asked.
He frowned. “Just as I thought. Coated.”
She tugged out of his grasp and scrambled across his legs to look in the old mirror that hung above the sofa. Sticking out her tongue, she examined it with a frown, then turned toward him. “My tongue is certainly not coated. I’m fine.”
He angled his head as though critically examining her. “Are you sure you feel okay? You look washed out.”
She plopped down on the bed beside him. “That’s not very flattering.”
His lips quirked as he turned back to his work. “I wasn’t aware that you wanted me to flatter you.” He flipped a page over, giving it his full attention.
Lucy glowered at him, then got back up on her knees and checked herself in the mirror again. She squinted, tilted her face left, then right. “Washed out? You think?” He didn’t respond, and when she faced him again, he seemed to be deep into his work. “Jack?” He reached for a pen on the side table and made a note in the margin, then picked up a calculator. “Jack?” she repeated more loudly.
“Hmm?” He didn’t look up, but went on with his calculating.
She heaved a sigh. He wasn’t even listening! This wasn’t like him. Deciding she didn’t appreciate his indifferent treatment, she scooted over and jabbed him in the ribs. “Jack!” she repeated.
He jerked, twisting around. “Hey.” Giving her a narrowed look that was more amused than annoyed, he grasped her wrist “Have you forgotten? I retaliate.”
She smirked at him. “I dare you.”
With a quick grin, he swept his papers aside. “You asked for it.”
When she made a halfhearted attempt to escape, he snagged her around the waist. She squealed and struggled even though they both knew her plan had been to get caught. Jack tugged her against him, tickling her ribs. “Jack!” She slapped at the hand curled around her waist, crushing her back and hips against him. “Let go of me—you...” She couldn’t go on when a fit of giggles burst from her lips.
“Are you going to poke me again?” he demanded playfully as she wriggled.
“Yes!” she cried, laughing. “When you ignore me, I’m going to poke you hard.” With his renewed tickling, she yelped, kicking and squirming until she found herself twisted around to face him. “Don’t do that! I’m going to poke you again—Jack—quit!” Instead of poking, she pressed her arms against his warm chest. “You’re cruel.”
“You started it.”
“You’re a brute,” she shot back, laughing.
Suddenly, he was no longer tickling her, and Lucy found herself staring into beautiful cinnamon eyes that had gone serious.
They were breast to chest, almost nose to nose, and Jack’s arm was hugging her close. The hand that had been tickling her now cupped her side—the fingers moved, splayed, the sensation caressing. Her flesh prickled beneath his touch and her heartbeat skyrocketed, making her breathing harsh and uneven. She grew alarmed and flustered by the unanticipated tension that suddenly surrounded them, crackling and snapping in the air like static.
She could tell that Jack felt something, too, for she saw him swallow hard. He opened his lips to say something, but hesitated. Lucy focused on those lips, thinking how nicely formed they were, remembering how expertly they could kiss....
Footsteps on the stairs drew their attention. “Oh, Jack! Telephone!” Elissa called. “I’m bringing you the portable.”
Lucy was the first to react. Pushing away, she scrambled to the other side of the bed and hopped off. Embarrassed for them both, she was still struggling to steady her shaky limbs when Elissa burst through the basement door and rounded the corner.
The redhead stilled when she saw Jack in bed. “I hope, darling boy, that you have pants on under there,” she teased. “I run a family establishment.”
Jack grinned at her, his expression so carefree and commanding that Lucy couldn’t be sure she’d actually seen uncertainty in his eyes only seconds before.
He took the phone from Elissa’s fingers. “I’m sure whoever’s calling has a great mental picture of me now. Thanks.”
The redhead covered the receiver. “It’s a woman, so I bet you’re right.” She handed him the telephone, asiding to Lucy, “She has a real low, sexy voice.”
“Hello?” he said, then smiled broadly. “Why, hello, Desiree.” His tone grew velvety and he looked at his watch. “It must be after three o’clock in Paris. What are you doing up?” -
Elissa caught Lucy’s attention and mouthed, “She’s French,” then waggled both brows suggestively when Jack chuckled at something the caller said.
“Of course I remember that night.” he murmured
, and Lucy was struck by the seductive quality of his voice.
What on earth was the woman on the other end of the line reminding him of? It sounded as though she must have said, “Remember, darling, when we swam naked under the moon and you made wild kinky love to me all night long on the beach?”
Lucy was riveted there, unable to move, watching Jack’s face, his sexy, crooked grin, his eyes, glittering with what she could only describe as desire. Desire for a woman whose very name meant desire! She wondered if this person on the phone was the fabled woman of his dreams. If she had come to her senses and—
“Luce?”
She started, blinking. “What?”
Jack indicated her bedroom with a nod. “This is personal. Do you mind?”
She felt a strange surge of dejection. “Oh—I’m...” She swallowed, backing away. It didn’t occur to her until that second that Elissa was already gone. She felt like a fool, eavesdropping. It was utterly unlike her. With a weak smile, she backed into her room.
As the door closed, he was chuckling that deep, lusty chuckle, and the last thing Lucy heard was “I miss you, too, darling,...”
Alone in her room, she leaned against the door. So Jack had a girlfriend. A Desiree. She would have a name like Desiree. She would be a sultry-voiced, sexy Frenchwoman—probably one of those anorexic model types. A beautiful, worldly, independent, uninhibited woman—a woman Jack professed to miss, one who was bold enough to call and remind him of wild sex games and who could flavor his laughter with provocative innuendos.
She felt a surge of—something—and squelched it. Chewing on her lower lip, she inhaled deeply and winced, realizing Jack’s scent clung to her. She recalled his lips again and how close she’d been to them—how her mind had drifted to thoughts of—of...
She jerked away from the door, pushing the ridiculous idea from her brain. This woman phoning Jack from France was a good thing, she told herself. Jack deserved happiness. He was one of the most wonderful people she’d ever known. Why shouldn’t he have a Desiree?
“That’s great, Jack,” she whispered as she scanned the shelves along her wall that held all the collection of angels he had ever given her over the years. Fingering the pin she wore, she wondered what sort of jewelry Jack gave Desiree. Probably not angels, some imp in her mind insisted on chiding. He probably thought of Desiree in a much more earthy way.
