“Jack. It’s already eleven thirty.” She rushed around, picking up things she usually kept neat and stuffing them into her tote bag.
Jackson stuck his head in the door. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s eleven thirty.”
“So?”
She turned around and stared at him. “Half the day is already gone. There is so much to do.”
“Like?”
“Like get ready for work next week. There are uniforms to iron and groceries to buy. My violets need replanting, and there’s probably dust all over my furniture. I’m going to have to take a rain check on the buns.”
Jackson looked at her like she’d grown a second head. “Glad you could spare the time yesterday.” He slammed the door and the doorknob tumbled across the floor.
Okay. Just because he didn’t sleep last night and was in a sour mood didn’t mean she had to lose her cool, too. She counted to ten. Then when looked at the doorknob, she counted to fifteen before she finished gathering her things. Jackson was sitting on the porch swing, messing with his guitar when she walked out. He looked up, watching her intently as she went over to him. Somehow this wasn’t how she pictured their romantic interlude ending.
“Your doorknob broke.” She meant to say something else, but those were the first words that leapt from her mouth.
Jackson shrugged and strummed out a chord.
“What are you pissed off about?”
“Nothing.”
“It doesn’t look like a nothing to me.”
“Your dust is gathering.”
“Damn it, Jack. You’re not being fair. There are things that have to get done. The world would be a sorry place if they didn’t get done. A little dusting around here wouldn’t hurt.”
“You weren’t thinking about dust yesterday or last night as I recall. Why the big change this morning?”
“Sex doesn’t make the world go around.”
Jackson looked up from his guitar then. He didn’t say anything, just looked at her and raised a questioning brow.
She blushed. She couldn’t deny he had made the earth move under her feet. “Well, not all the way around.”
Jackson set his guitar aside and stood. “Sure about that, sugar?” he asked advancing.
Nan stepped back and planted her hand in the middle of his chest. She could barely hold back the groan. He felt so good and now that she knew intimately the magic he could make, she’d lost all resistance to his charm. If he maneuvered her into bed now, she’d be there all day. “Dinner,” she piped, her voice creaking in her suddenly dry throat.
“I’m hungry,” Jackson murmured. He took her hand from his chest, brought it up to his mouth and nibbled. “Hungry for another taste of you.” He brushed his tongue over her finger.
Nan stepped back and moaned as an electric streak of desire shot up her arm. “Not now. Tomorrow night. My place. I’ll cook dinner for you.”
His gaze focused on hers over the top of her hand. Her invitation seemed to stop him cold. Was he surprised? Or had she scared him? Now that she thought about it, when they’d dated before, she had never invited him to her apartment. She supposed it was her way of assuring they didn’t end up in bed. But on the other hand, he hadn’t asked to come in either. Not until he’d brought her the sticky buns.
After a long moment, he breathed deeply then spoke. “Tomorrow night, your place?”
“Yes.” Nan licked her dry lips. Why did she feel as if her heart hung on his answer? This weekend was meant to explore her thoughts about Jackson, possibly get him out of her system, not to entrench him deeper inside of her.
He released her hand and stepped back as he ran his fingers through his hair. This didn’t appear to be an easy decision for him and Nan wondered why. It wasn’t like they weren’t somewhat involved. They’d just spent about as intimate a weekend as two people could.
“Okay. What time?” he finally answered.
“Six,” Nan said, suddenly having the urge to smile.
“Six it is.” Jackson moved forward and swept her up in a mind-boggling kiss. She felt in that moment as if he’d made more than just a physical step her way.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“I expect you to be on your best behavior tomorrow night. Paws off the food and absolutely no snack attacks on any of Jackson’s personal belongings,” Nan instructed as she finished watering her plants and checking them for signs of trouble.
Shakespeare blinked at her and deigned to give her a flick of his tail. She wasn’t sure she had his cooperation at all, but she let it go. She had other things to worry about. Like what she was going to say to Brad. The message he’d left on her answering machine Friday night said he would call her when he got in tonight. At ten o’clock, her “night” was just about over with considering she had to be up at five in the morning.
She’d already decided she’d tell Brad they couldn’t date any more. She just hadn’t figured how to say it. Did she owe him an explanation? Her mind kept turning circles, looking for answers. At ten fifteen she couldn’t stay up later and called Brad. She got his answering machine.
“Brad. This is Nan. I’m afraid I won’t be able to go next weekend for the yacht party. As it turns out, I’m working then. When you get back, we need to talk. Good night.”
Nan hung up the phone. She couldn’t break off with him via the answering machine, so canceling their date was the best she could do for the moment.
As she lay in bed thoughts of Jackson swam in and out of her mind—him at the beach, at his cabin, the places and the ways they’d made love. The way her body ached for him now was so much worse than the ache she had had before. Having him only intensified her need for him. He was coming for dinner, beyond that she had no idea. Making love to him only made her want more things from him. A vivid fantasy took shape and she pulled out her pen and little black book.
A masked, black-clad pirate stood on the bow of a ship that had just captured the frigate she had sought passage on. She was on her way to England to marry a stranger—Lord Weldon to whom she’d been betrothed since birth.
Her heart pounded with fear as the scurvy pirate who’d forced her from her berth dragged her by her bound hands to the masked man. An icy wind whipped about in the cold drizzling rain, making her shiver.
“I’ll take her from here,” the masked man said turning to her. He looked dangerous, dressed all in black. His eyes gleamed blue from beneath his mask and his damp raven hair blew wildly about his broad shoulders.
“Aye, Black Jack. She’s a feisty one and a beauty as well. She’ll warm your bed better than a tavern wench any ol’ day.”
Black Jack caught hold of the rough rope wrapped tightly about her wrists. “This won’t do.” He drew a dagger from his belt.
She flinched, painfully pulling against the binds. Tears brimmed in her eyes as he forced her closer to him.
“You’d do well to fear me,” he said, his voice a deep, almost unnatural rasp. Then amazingly, he cut the ropes. She fell backward, but he was faster. He caught hold of her waist and pulled her up against him.
Her blood rushed in response to her hammering heart. She feared him, but his hold on her was gentle, his body warm to her cold, rain dampened state.
“You need ropes of silk to bind you.” Lord Weldon looked through his mask at the woman with whom he was betrothed. Some of the anger in his heart eased. The old salt hadn’t lied. She was beautiful. Still, no amount of beauty was worth the price he’d have to pay to fulfill a near twenty-year old promise his deceased father had made.
Lord Weldon smiled; his plan was working well. In capturing the king’s ship he would finally reclaim a small portion of the money the king owed his family and had refused to pay these past ten years. And once word reached England that his bride to be had been taken captive by pirates, no one would blame him for not marrying the girl. He’d set her up in her own home, provide for her, and avoid the perils of the marriage bed. Though from the full bosom pressed so softly to hi
s chest, those perils were a bit less than he’d imagined.
With all the hard-edged pirates he’d hired, he’d have to keep her confined to his quarters to assure her safety. And considering the spark in her eyes, she’d have to be tethered to keep her there. The thought of her bound to his bed, a slave to his desires aroused some dark fantasy inside him. He’d never take an unwilling woman, but the idea of a woman pretending to be unwilling until his touch swayed her, caused his blood to pump. Very little in life excited him anymore.
His betrothed recovered enough to push back from his chest and to fight his hold. He smiled as he pulled a silk handkerchief from about his neck to bind her again. Maybe by the time they reached port, this beauty would want to share in his fantasy. She would have to be blindfolded. He couldn’t chance her connecting the Pirate Black Jack and Lord Weldon.
* * *
The alarm clock rang and Nan fought the silken binds to free herself, her body aching for another touch from Black Jack’s magical hands. Her eyes popped open at the thought.
Lord, have mercy! In her sleep she had wound her sheet about both her wrists. Untangling herself, she pulled out her black book and started to write. When she finished, she knew she was in big trouble. Not because of the fantasy and not because she’d almost made that fantasy come true by binding herself in her sleep. Nope, she was in big trouble because of where this fantasy had ended up. The unwilling Lord Weldon had eventually married her.
Nan bounced out of the bed and rushed off to work in record time. If she kept herself busy, kept her mind focused on the million and one demands of her job, then maybe she could stay sane until Jackson showed up for dinner. This just sex relationship was more that she bargained for. Her need of Jackson should be diminishing not increasing.
The Labor and Delivery Department was insane and seeing Jackson working outside the Nurse’s Station window all day nearly drove her crazy. She didn’t have time for anything more than a Coke for breakfast, and lunch consisted of a bag of chips as she wrote in her patients’ charts.
She was starving by the time she left work and part of her hunger had nothing to do with food. She stopped at a lingerie shop to appease some of her appetite and then dashed to the grocery store. There she spent double what she usually did, which wouldn’t be a big deal if she could remember half of what she bought. All she could think about was Jackson and what she’d bought to tantalize him with. She also bought him a little plant to brighten up his cabin.
A brisk breeze whipped in from the ocean and a line of dark clouds hovered in the distant horizon. Rushing home before the storm, she put a roast and a potato casserole in the oven and checked the asparagus soup she had prepared yesterday. She would serve the soup cold and add a spinach and vinaigrette salad to complete the main meal. For dessert she had snatched a Chocolate Decadence Cheesecake from the grocery’s freezer.
Hurrying to the bathroom to take a final assessment of her appearance, she looked in the mirror as she spritzed on her favorite light perfume. Her mind a convoluted mess with one clear thought. She’d married the man in her fantasy. Repeatedly. Was it some sort of sign that she was supposed to really marry Jackson?
“But I can’t marry Lord Weldon,” she blurted out to herself.
Eyes wide, she clamped her hand over her mouth. Okay, she could handle this. Talking to a mirror as if the fantasy she had had last night was real was no biggie. She was completely in control of her life. She was a mature, consenting adult. It was just sex, right?
She was…she was…deranged. She decided to call Jackson and reschedule after she went to therapy. That should take about six months. Six months was good. Maybe by then she’d be able to carry on an intelligent conversation and not see a masked pirate lover lurking around, or a Harley, or remember the hood of his truck, or hear guitar music. Okay maybe she needed a year of therapy in Siberia to cool down her attraction to Jackson.
Though the leopard-print underwear she’d bought and wore gave lie to her intentions, she still walked over to the telephone to call Jackson and cancel. The doorbell rang before she could make it. He was early. Jackson was never early.
Jackson rolled his shoulders, marveling at the relaxed ease he felt. For the first time in forever, he’d had a damn good day. This just sex proposition with Nan was just right. He couldn't wait to have her again, but that hunger would ease. Just give it a little time and he'd be back to his normal self. Still, he thought, maybe things would be a little different from now on. The possibility of another damn good day on his horizon seemed to be something he'd have to adjust to.
Back in med school and during his internship, he had had too many things to do to feel any type of ease, ever. Recently, he had done just what he had to do to get the job finished, but today things had been different.
He’d enjoyed the warmth of the sun on his back, the fresh breeze blowing in from the Atlantic, and the low-key camaraderie involved in the shared task of building something tangible and worthwhile with his own hands. There was a certain satisfaction in construction. Nothing like the rush of handling medical emergencies in the ER, but then he didn’t have to deal with the patient who didn’t survive, or the constant pressure of having a person’s life rest on your decisions. And without medicine, he didn’t have to deal with the constant reminders of Amy and his own failure.
Jackson wasn’t sure what made today any different than every day for the past four years, but being with Nan had to be part of it. He lifted an impatient gaze to the gathered clouds, showering him with a misty rain. At this rate he’d be soaked before she answered the door. He shifted the wine and spray of honeysuckle blossoms he’d clipped from the bush next to the creek and aimed his finger at the doorbell again. What was taking her so long?
She opened the door just as he hit the buzzer and she jumped about three feet. She appeared tense, harried, and as needy as he felt. She looked him up and down twice, started to say something, but couldn’t seem to get the words out.
Her full lips parted and she seemed so adorably kissable he couldn’t wait another minute. He’d been thinking about kissing her all day long.
“Here.” Stepping into her apartment, he handed her the wine and the honeysuckle, then he wrapped his arms about her hips and lifted her to his kiss. She managed to move the wine bottle to the side, but the honeysuckle lay squashed between them. He didn’t care; she met his kiss with sock-smoking enthusiasm. She tasted like heaven itself and he delved deeper into her sweet mouth.
Jackson didn’t even think to ask Nan or to say anything, all he could think about was having her. He set her on her feet, shifted his arms and swooped her up, just barely remembering to kick the front door shut with his boot as he carried her back to her bedroom. She kept kissing him and he kept kissing her; they hardly had time to breathe.
He laid her on the bed and stepped back. Her eyes were dark with passion, her mouth open and ready for more of him, and her breasts rose and fell intriguingly with her every breath. She wore a feel-me silky brown blouse and an enticing short white skirt.
“I’ve been waiting all day for you,” he said softly as he loosened her hand from the wine bottle and set it on the floor. Then he took the fragrant honeysuckle spray and placed it on the bottom of the bed.
“Me too,” she confessed. “You, uh, wore all black.”
“Yeah. Does that bother you?” He placed a knee on her bed and leaned in close enough to cup her breasts in his hand.
“Um, nnooo. You’re sort of damp.”
“Yeah. Let’s work on getting you damp, too.” He flicked his thumbs over her rising nipples. Just then an alarm rang from the kitchen area, and Nan jumped up from the bed lickety-split.
“The roast.”
“Roast?” He was roasted all right.
“It will burn if I don’t turn off the oven.”
“I can relate,” Jackson muttered.
“Huh?” Nan looked back at him as she walked to the door.
“Nothing. Just hurry.”
> “Okay. I’ll be right back.”
Jackson flopped back on the bed and accidentally knocked the pillows askew. He was in the middle of seducing her and the woman remembered a roast in the oven? Maybe he was losing his touch. Maybe he was losing his mind. He turned over on his stomach and groaned. Having an affair with Nan was like jumping into a forest fire. He was doomed to burn and he’d known that beforehand. How long did it take to turn an oven off? He opened his eyes and before him was an open black book.
A diary? Frowning, he sat up and placed the book on her bedside table. Would taking off his boots seem too presumptuous? After the way he’d carted her into the bedroom, she would expect he’d take off his boots—and maybe a few other things as well. He leaned over to slip off his boots and did a double take on the open page of the black book. The name Lord Weldon jumped out at him and he picked it up. Was Nan doing some sort of genealogy research? If so she was clearly barking up the wrong Weldon family tree. He didn’t have any lords in his ancestry. He looked at the door, thought about reading it without asking then changed his mind.
“Nan,” he called walking to the door holding the book. “Who’s Lord Weldon?”
“Oh my God!” Nan froze in the middle of transferring the potato casserole from the oven to the table. She couldn’t move; she couldn’t speak. Her heart raced and the room swayed like a banana boat in a hurricane. The heat of the casserole burned through her insulated gloves and still she couldn’t move.
Jackson entered the kitchen. “Nan?”
She shut her eyes. She couldn’t look at him. She couldn’t breathe, and she could feel the blood rushing from her head.
“What the hell!”
Nan barely felt Jackson take the casserole from her, but his expletives came through loud and clear though. “Ouch, damn, sonofabitch, that’s hot! What kind of crappy potholders are these?”
Smooth Irish (Book 2 of the Weldon Series) Page 14
