"No," Melody said, surprised that it was true. "I don't mind."
She opened the front door of her car, but he moved to block her way. "How about I drive?"
"Do you know how to drive a stick shift?"
Jones just looked at her.
"Right," she said, handing him the keys. "Navy SEAL. God, can you believe I almost forgot? If you can fly a plane, you can certainly handle my car, as particular as it is."
It was much easier getting in the passenger side without the steering wheel in her way. Jones waited to start the engine until after she closed the door behind her and fastened her seat belt.
"The clutch can be really temperamental," she started to say, but stopped when he gave her another pointed look.
But he smiled then, and she found herself smiling, too. She always found herself smiling when he was around.
Jones managed to get the car down the driveway and onto the main road without stalling, without even hiccuping. He drove easily, comfortably, with one hand on the wheel and the other resting lightly on the gearshift. He had nice hands. They were strong and capable-looking, just like the man himself.
"I was thinking," he said, finally breaking the silence as they approached the store, "that tomorrow might be a good day to put your garden to bed for the winter. It's supposed to be in the high fifties and sunny." He glanced at her. "I could help you do it after church, if you want."
Melody didn't know what to say.
"I'm afraid I've never been much of a gardener. I'm not really sure what needs to be done." He cleared his throat. "I figure the best way to do the job is for me to act as your hands and back. You tell me what to do, what to lift, what to carry, and I'll do it for you."
There was only one other car in the convenience-store parking lot and it was idling over by the telephones. Jones slid Melody's car neatly into one of the spots near the doors and turned off the engine. But he shifted slightly to face her rather than climb out.
"What do you think?" he asked.
Melody looked into his eyes and smiled. "I think you heard about the charity apple picking that's going on up at Hetterman's Orchards tomorrow after church, and you want to make sure you have a really good reason not to go."
Jones laughed. "No, I haven't heard anything about anything. What's the deal? Apple picking?"
"Hetterman's has always had a problem hiring temporary help to pick the last of the apples. It's a self-service farm, and people come out from the city all season long to pick their own apples, but there's always a lot left over. About seven years ago, they made a deal with one of the local Girl Scout troops. If the girls could get twenty people to come out and pick apples for a day, Hetterman's promised to award one of the high school kids a five-hundred-dollar scholarship. Well, the girls outdid themselves. They got a hundred people to come and got the job done in about three hours instead of an entire day. And in the seven years since then, it's become a town tradition. Last year, four hundred people turned out for the event, and they finished in less than two hours. And the five hundred dollars from Hettennan's has been matched by Glenzen Brothers Hardware, the Congregational Church, The First City Bank and a handful of private benefactors, making the scholarship a full five thousand dollars."
She laughed at herself. "Listen to me. I sound like such a Pollyanna. I can't help it, though. The thought of all those people working together like that for such a good cause just makes me all goose bumpy and shivery. I know, I know, I'm a sap."
"No, you're not." Jones was smiling at her very slightly. "I think it's cool, too. It's real teamwork in action." He was watching her closely, paying careful attention, as if what she had told him was the most important piece of news in the universe. Being the centre of the tight focus of all his intensity was somewhat overwhelming, though.
The yellowish parking-lot lamps shone dimly through the car windows, creating intricate patterns of shadow and light on the dashboard. It was quiet and far too intimate. She should get out of the car. She knew she should.
"This year, they're trying to get six hundred people to participate and do the whole thing in under an hour. They want to try to set a record."
He reached forward to play with one of her curls. Touching but not touching. "Then we better plan to show up, huh?"
Melody laughed, gently pulling her hair free from his grasp, trying to break the mood, knowing that she had to. She had no choice. If she didn't do something, it wasn't going to be long before he leaned over and kissed her. "Somehow I just can't see you spending even half an hour picking apples." She unfastened her seat belt, but Jones still made no move to get out of the car.
"Why not?"
"Get serious, Jones."
"I am serious. It sounds like fun. Serious fun."
"Apple picking isn't exactly your speed."
"Yeah, well, maybe I don't know anything about that," he drawled, "but I do know all about working in a team, and it sounds as if this is one team I'd be proud to be a part of."
Melody got out of the car, fast. She had to, or else she was going to do something really stupid—like kiss him.
But he must've been able to read her mind because he followed and caught her hand before she even reached the convenience-store door.
"Come on," he said, his eyes daring her to take a chance. "Let's make this a plan. We'll do the apple-picking thing, have lunch, then come home and tackle the garden." He smiled. "And then in the evening, if you're feeling really adventurous, we can take a walk down at the Audubon Bird Refuge."
Melody laughed, and Jones leaned forward and kissed her.
She knew exactly what he was doing, what he had been doing over the past week. He was wearing her down little by little, piece by piece. He was actively trying to make her fall in love with him. He was taking everything really slowly. He was making a point to be extraordinarily gentle.
Except this was no languorous, gentle kiss. This time, he took her by storm, claiming her mouth with a hunger that stole her breath away. She could taste his passion along with the sweet mint toothpaste he must've used right before he came out of his tent to meet her.
She could feel his hands in her hair, on her back, sliding down to cup the soft fullness of her rear end. He'd held her that way in Paris, pressing her tightly against him so that she would be sure to feel the evidence of his arousal, nestled tightly between them.
But the only thing nestled between them now was her watermelon-sized stomach.
She heard him half growl, half laugh with frustration. "Making love to you is going to be really interesting. We're going to have to get kind of creative, aren't we?"
Melody could feel her heart pounding. She was breathing hard as she looked up into his eyes, but she couldn't seem to pull away. She didn't want to pull away. She actually wanted him to take her home and kiss her that way again. She wanted to make love to him. God, she was weak. He'd broken down her defences in just a little over fourteen days. But maybe she had been crazy ever to think she could resist this man.
But instead of pulling her back toward the car, Jones reached for the criminal door. "Let's get what we came for."
He stood back to let her go through first.
Melody reached up to touch her lips as she went into the store. That kiss had been so scalding it should, by all rights, have marked her. But as far as she could tell, her lips were still attached.
The overhead lights were glaring compared to the dim parking lot, and she squinted slightly as she looked around the depressingly bleak little store.
Isaac Forte was clerking tonight. He always handled the night shift-which seemed appropriate. With his pale, gaunt face and painfully thin, almost skeletal frame, he reminded her of a vampire. If daylight ever actually came in contact with him, no doubt he would crumble into dust. But she, too, had become a creature of the night over the past few months. And her odd cravings had made her a frequent customer of the Honey Farms, so she'd come to know Isaac rather well. He had his problems, but having to drink hu
man blood to stay alive wasn't one of them, thank goodness.
"Hi, Isaac," she said.
Two men in black jackets were at the checkout counter. Isaac was waiting on them and—
Jones moved so fast he was almost a total blur.
He kicked, and something went flying to the other side of the room.
A gun. One of these men had had a gun, and Jones had disarmed him, knocking it out of reach before Melody had barely even noticed it.
"Get out of here!" he shouted as he slammed one of the men down onto the floor, forcing the one to trip up the other.
The first man was dazed, but the second scrambled away, trying to reach the fallen gun. Melody could see it, gleaming and deadly, on the floor in front of the popcorn and corn chips.
"Melody, dammit, go!" Jones bellowed even as he grabbed for the second man, his hand closing around the leather of the thug's jacket.
He was talking to her. He wanted her to get to safety.
A rack of paperback books crashed to the floor as the man furiously fought to get free, to reach the gun. Melody watched, hypnotized with icy fear, as Jones fought just as hard to hang on, not even stopping for a second as he placed a well-aimed kick behind him that dropped the first man, die dazed man, to the floor with a final-sounding thud.
There was nothing even remotely fair about this wrestling match. No rules were being followed, no courtesies allowed, no time-outs granted. Jones slammed the gunman's head against the floor even as the man continued his own barrage of blows. Elbows, knees, hands, feet—it was meant to drive Jones back, but the SEAL was unstoppable. He just kept on coming.
The look on Jones's face transformed him, and his eyes sparked with an unholy light. He looked more like beast than man, his lips pulled back in a terrifying snarl of rage.
He kicked the gun even farther away as he flung the man violently in the opposite direction. Cheerios boxes exploded everywhere as he followed, pounding the man, hitting him hard again and again until there was no doubt in anyone's mind that the robber wasn't going to get up. At least not right away.
Outside in the parking lot, the car that had been idling sped away with a squeal of tires.
Even though both men were down and still, Jones moved quickly, going for the gun. Melody nearly collapsed with relief as his hands closed around it. He was safe. She wasn't going to have to stand there and watch him get pumped full of bullets.
She could hear police sirens in the distance. Isaac, no doubt, had triggered the alarm when the fight had started. He now peered warily over the top of the counter, his eyes wide as he gazed at Jones.
Jones checked the gun, removing the clip and releasing the chambered round. And then he looked at her, his eyes still lit from within with the devil's own anger.
"The next time I give you an order, dammit, you do it!" He was breathing hard, his chest still heaving as he fought to suck in enough air. His nose was bleeding and the front of his T-shirt was stained bright red with blood, but he didn't even notice.
"An order? But—"
"No buts." He slammed the empty gun down on the checkout counter. Melody had never seen him like this. Not even during the hostage rescue. He was furious. With her. "These scumbags had a weapon, Melody. If that dirtwad over there—" he gestured toward the man who'd put up a fight "—had managed to get his hands on it, he damn well would've used it! And these days, honey, you aren't exactly the tiniest of targets!"
Stung, Melody turned and walked out of the criminal.
"Now you leave," he said, pulling the door open to follow her. "Perfect."
She spun back to face him. "I don't take orders from you. I'm not one of your SEAL buddies-I don't know how to take orders!"
"You managed just fine in the Middle East."
"Yeah, well, look around you, Lieutenant. This isn't the Middle East. This is Appleton, Massachusetts. And / haven't trained myself to react instantly when I walk into the middle of a convenience-store stickup." Her voice caught on something that was half laughter, half sob. "God, and I was just starting to think that maybe you were just a normal guy. Yeah, you're normal—and I stand a shot at winning the Miss America swimsuit competition. What a joke!"
The night was getting downright frosty. Or maybe it wasn't the chill in the air that was making her start to shake.
"I'd like my car keys," she said, lifting her chin, determined to keep from crumbling in front of him. "I want to go home now."
He ran his hands back through his rumpled hair, closing his eyes and pressing the heels of his hands against his temples, visibly trying to bring himself out of combat mode. And when he spoke, his voice was more even. "I don't think I can just leave. They're going to want a statement—"
"I'm not asking you to leave. I'm sure one of the police officers can give you a lift when you're done."
Jones reached for her. "Melody..."
She stiffened, closing her eyes and refusing to feel anything as he put his arms around her. "I don't want you to touch me," she told him through clenched teeth.
He backed off, but only a little. He took a deep breath, forcing even more of his anger to dissipate. "Honey, you gotta understand. I saw that revolver and—"
"You did what you had to do," she finished for him. "What you've been trained to do. You attacked. You're very good at that, I'll give you that much." She stepped out of his embrace. "Please tell Chief Beatrice that I'll stop by the station tomorrow to give my statement. But right now, I have to go home."
He held the car keys in his hand. "Why don't you let me drive you?" He glanced up as the first of the police cars pulled into the lot, and he raised his voice to be heard over the wailing siren. "I'll just tell these guys that I'll be back in a second." The siren cut off, leaving him shouting in the stillness, "I don't want you to have to drive."
She took the keys from him. "I'm fine. I can drive myself."
Isaac Forte came out to meet the policemen and all three men approached Jones. Melody used the opportunity to get into her car. But she should have known Jones wasn't going to let her just drive away. He came to the side of the car and waited until she opened her window.
"I won't be too long," he told her. He looked down as if noticing the blood on his shirt for the first time. He had an angry-looking scratch on his arm, as well, and he was gingerly touching the inside of his lips with his tongue as if he'd cut himself on his own teeth. "Can we talk when I get back?"
She looked out the windshield, afraid to meet his eyes. "I don't think that's a good idea."
"Mel, please? I know I had no right to speak to you that way, but I was scared to death you were gonna get hurt—"
"I'm tired, Jones," she lied. "I'm going to grab a bowl of soup and go back to sleep." He was leaning with both hands braced on the top of her car, so she couldn't just drive away. She did put the car into gear, though. She knew he could see that the reverse lights had come on. But when he still didn't step back, she finally looked up at him. "I want to go now," she said, fighting to keep her voice from shaking.
All of his earlier anger was gone, and he looked worn-out and beaten—as if he'd lost the fight instead of won.
"I'm sorry," he told her, straightening up. If she didn't know better, she might've thought those were tears in his eyes. "Mel, I'm deeply sorry."
"I am, too," she whispered.
Melody released the clutch and backed out of the parking lot. She only stalled once as she pulled onto the road that took her home.
"What's up?"
Cowboy glanced up from his book to smile at Andy. "Hey, kid. I'm getting Mel's garden ready for winter."
"No, you're not," Andy scoffed. "You're sitting there reading a book."
Andy had a swollen lip and a nasty-looking scrape on his jaw-line. He'd been in another fight, probably with that older kid—Alex Parks—who took such pleasure in tormenting him.
Andy's brown eyes dared him to comment on his injuries.
"Well, yeah, I'm reading a book," Cowboy said, purposely say
ing nothing. "That's the first step. See, first I have to learn how to do it—you know, figure out what kind of tools and supplies I need."
"That book tells you all that?"
"It does. Believe it or not, all the information I need to do damn near anything is two miles down that road in the town library. Need your refrigerator fixed? Piece a cake. Just get me a book. I can learn another language, build a house from the foundation up, shoe a horse—you name it, the knowledge I need to get the job done is in the library, guaranteed. Especially now that they're plugged into the Internet."
Andy looked at the garden bed, at the plants that had shrivelled and turned brown in the cool night air, then at the last of the beans that were still clinging stubbornly to life. He looked back at Cowboy, clearly unimpressed. "So what's there to do? Everything's dead. You can't plant anything new until spring anyway."
"Ever hear of mulching?" Cowboy asked.
"No."
"Me, neither. At least not more than really vaguely before I picked up this book. But apparently, it's good to do. I haven't quite reached the part that tells me why, but I'm getting there."
Andy rolled his eyes. "You know, there's a much easier way to do all this."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yeah. Just ask Melody what she wants done."
Ask Melody. That was a damned fine idea. But unfortunately, Cowboy couldn't ask Melody anything until she stopped hiding from him again.
It had been nearly three days since the incident at the Honey Farms convenience store. The criminal, she'd called the place. And the name fit. They'd certainly run into some criminal activity, that was for sure.
God, he'd never known fear like that hot-and-cold streak of terror that had shot through him when he'd seen that revolver. He'd had about one-tenth of a second to decide what to do, and in that fraction of a moment, for the first time in his life, he'd actually considered backing down. He'd actually thought about surrendering.
But he couldn't tell in that heartbeat of time if the men were using or not. He didn't know for sure from that one quick glance if they were out of their minds, high on some chemical substance, or strung out, desperate and ready to eliminate anyone who so much as looked at them crooked.
Everyday, Average Jones Page 17
