by Tara Janzen
When he left, Jaz leaned over the table and whispered, “Remind me not to bring you here again, okay? And what was all that bottle business about? Has he been after you?” His eyes narrowed to gray slits.
Patiently Chantal took his hands in hers. “I’m the only local single female in the whole town he hasn’t gotten to,” she explained. “Sometimes I think these guys run book on me. If so, they’ve had a lot of losers.” She noted the suspicion ease out of his eyes and the soft gleam of victory return. In another man that particular winning light would have disturbed her, but there was no denying that he had won—and so had she.
She became aware of the rapt quiet at the other end of the table, and, making sure she didn’t look over, she released his hands and sat back in her chair. But she wasn’t embarrassed. He was definitely loving the shy places out of her heart.
Only a few minutes passed before the food arrived, and Jaz spent all of them wrapping his legs around hers under the table, a very smug smile on his face.
“Two blues, hard.” Peter landed the plates with a flourish and made a production number out of pouring their coffee. Stage aspirations, Jaz thought with a lot more charity than he’d given the magazine cover.
“Syrup, please,” Chantal said, nodding toward the bottle at Jaz’s side of the table.
He put a lot more effort into the delivery than she thought was necessary, getting up out of his chair and reaching across the table to pour it for her. She glanced up and found him grinning from ear to ear.
“I love you, Chantal.” Propping one hand on the table, he leaned over and kissed the corner of her mouth, then turned his head and kissed the other. “I love you. I love you.” Open-mouthed, he sealed his lips over hers and delved with his tongue, sweeping her mouth in lazy tracks.
Mesmerized by his words, she could only succumb to the undulating waves of pleasure flowing through her, and pray she didn’t slide under the table. She barely heard the catcalls, whistles, and smattering of applause in the background—or the mad shuffling of plates on the table.
Finishing the kiss with a resounding smack, Jaz sat back down and noted the conscientious actions of their table partners. They had kept the syrup from running over her plate by shoving his under the stream.
“Thanks.” He was still grinning wickedly. Turning his attention back to Chantal he said, “You’d better eat, babe. You’re going to need all your strength.”
Now she was embarrassed. And happy. And shocked. And sad. He loved her, and she couldn’t lie to him. Sooner or later he’d ask questions she didn’t want to answer. The thought made her want to run, a fruitless option. He’d been dogging her heels since the alarm had gone off at Sandhurst’s; he’d never let her run. That only left the truth, and the realization killed her appetite. She ate anyway, knowing she’d need all her strength, not for making love, but for the showdown where everybody lost.
O.B.’s tender blueberry pancakes turned to lead in her mouth, bite after heavy bite. She kept working on them until she’d worn half the stack away, occasionally intercepting glances from Jaz that were turning more concerned with each passing moment. She cajoled herself into a smiling countenance. She didn’t want it to be over so soon, the feelings of love, of being cherished.
Her smile was sweet, but weak at the corners, and Jaz wondered if he’d moved too fast with his declaration. After the night before she must have known. That kind of magic didn’t happen unless hearts, and not just bodies, were involved. At least it had never happened to him before. Nothing had prepared him for the amount of love he felt for her, this beautiful woman with the sky in her eyes and the sun in her hair.
Declaring his love with strangers sharing their table was one thing. Hashing out problems was another, and he knew he’d have to wait until they were alone. Maybe he could afford to tell her what General Moore had revealed, let her know it didn’t change how he felt. Maybe now she’d understand why he’d dug up her past on his own. The smile slipped off her face as she pushed a bit of egg around her plate. Then again, maybe not.
Jaz didn’t have a lot of rules for living, but of the few he had, not letting anything interfere with his appetite was the one dearest held. Her unease threatened to break his rule. He rallied by asking, “Are you going to eat those pancakes or just fool with them until they’re mush?”
“Mush,” she confessed, glancing up.
“Let’s trade plates. You can play in my syrup.” He made the exchange and dug into her remaining breakfast.
Chantal leaned back in her chair and shoved her hands into her pockets, watching him eat and wondering where it all went. Their lovemaking had left no physical secrets between them, and she knew there wasn’t an extra ounce on his body. Every inch of him was a testimony of the perfection to be found in a man. That lean, muscular body, exquisitely sensitive to her touch, had excited and fulfilled her, all night long. She didn’t want to lose him.
With luck, they might not get around to the history lesson for a few days. The day before, she wouldn’t have given two bits for her luck, but it had taken a dramatic turn in his arms. She’d grab every hour, every day, of his love and his loving she could get. Knowing what she had to offer in return made her feel like a thief, a real thief.
And so she was, she thought, reaching out and seductively running her boot up his calf. “Let’s go home, Jaz,” she said softly.
The three-tiered bite of pancake halfway to his mouth fell back on his plate as he shoved himself away from the table. Without waiting for the check, he dropped a twenty on the table. “Now I know why these guys get such great tips.” He grinned.
Safely snuggled under his arm, Chantal matched each of his long strides with two of hers. In the time it took them to walk the block to the Jeep, the sun had disappeared behind a bank of clouds and the famed powder of the Rockies began falling from the sky. A group of teenaged boys on the corner howled their thanks, raising and shaking their skis in their hands. They whooped and hollered and punched one another as they made their way to the lift.
Jaz chuckled. “I remember when snow had the same effect on me. The thought of untracked powder was enough to keep me awake at night. Then I discovered girls. Talk about lying awake at night.” He lowered his head and nuzzled her ear, pressing her back into the door of the Jeep. “Now I’ve got you, and being awake at night has become one of my favorite things, right along with having you make love to me in my sleep.”
She turned her mouth into his for the warming passion of his kiss, her lips softening and parting. He took full advantage of her gift. His hand came to rest under her breast and his thumb tracked a lazy circle over her sweater, promising without delivering.
His unbuttoned jacket gaped open, and she automatically wrapped her arms around his waist, gathering his warmth and supple strength in her small hands. His body was like a furnace, so much heat in the snow. The waiter had been right, she thought. Jaz, should bottle his magic. But you couldn’t buy what he had in abundance, that tender touch, his special way of giving, the way he made her want to give in return.
He lifted his mouth from hers and kissed the snowflakes off her cheeks. “We can probably neck out here on the street for another five minutes, maximum, before I embarrass both of us. Or we can go home and start over again.”
In answer she gave him one more quick kiss and reached behind her to open the door. He grinned. “My thoughts exactly.”
Nine
The first hint of disaster was the multitude of fresh snowmobile tracks on her driveway. Thin and more closely spaced than the outgoing tracks of the Jeep, they were easily discernible in the snow. The second sign was more than a hint. The cabin door was open.
They both noticed the breach at the same time, and Jaz shot her a disquieting look, the sensually playful mood they’d been cultivating coming to an abrupt halt. No snowmobiles were in evidence, but they both knew how easy it was to hide one in the forest.
“Stay here,” he commanded softly, sliding out his side of the Jeep. H
e left the motor running and the door open.
Chantal watched, barely breathing, as he inched his head around the doorway, then slipped inside. Her instincts were to follow him. Caution and the knowledge that if they needed help she could give it better by remaining free kept her in the Jeep, for about thirty interminable seconds.
During those seconds a hundred different scenarios flashed through her brain, and she came to a painful decision. She had to let him go. Having Jaz hurt wasn’t part of the risk she’d been willing to take. If it weren’t for her, he would be in Mexico, working on his tan and chasing down unfaithful spouses, not putting his life in danger again. She had no illusions about her worth, and it came up far short of his life.
Sandhurst might be after his papers, but it was her home he’d traced them to. Reality time, babe, she thought bitterly, knowing the dream was over.
She eased out of the Jeep and sneaked up to the door, grabbing a piece of firewood on the way.
It was a patently useless weapon, but it increased her courage. No sounds of a struggle reached her ears, which meant one of two things: They were gone or they’d caught him off-guard.
With all the stealth at her disposal, she edged along the porch, keeping her profile below the window. She took a quick peek through the pane and stifled a gasp. The cabin had been wrecked inside. Jaz was nowhere in sight, but neither was anybody else.
Feeling slightly less trepidation, she slipped inside, and was immediately captured in a powerful grip. Her foot came down hard and her elbow slammed back.
“Oomph . . . Chan—”
“Jaz.” Her voice was a contrite wail. She turned in his arms. “Oh, sweetheart, are you okay? Did I hurt you?” Her hands raced over his body, touching, pressing. When she reached his seventh rib, he winced and snatched her hand up in his.
“We can play doctor later, sweetheart. Pack your bikini. We’re blowing this pop stand, getting the hell out of Dodge.”
Chantal’s gaze roamed over the shambles, the busted clasp on her hope chest, the junk strewn across the kitchen floor, the disarray of clothes streaming from the bathroom. Every drawer and cushion had been overturned, and she felt a sickening wave of nausea from the personal violation.
“How . . . ?” Emotion kept her from finishing the question.
“The way I see it, you and the Palmers are the only ones living within a two-mile radius. Sandhurst knows you, knew you’d been in his house. It’s not much, but he obviously thought it was worth checking out. Thank God there wasn’t anything here for them to find.” He paused and looked around the cabin. “They were thorough. I don’t think they’ll be back, but just to be on the safe side, I think we should take a little vacation someplace warm. Who knows? By the time I get you tanned all over, maybe the government will have pulled together enough pieces to put Sandhurst away.”
He rubbed his hand along her nape and placed a kiss on the top of her head. Chantal barely felt either. Sandhurst had done this to her, torn her sanctuary to shreds, touched everything she owned. And as her glance took in each encroachment, all the hours of her past came back to haunt her. All the victories of generations of Cochards settled over her consciousness like a dark, heavy shroud, perversely making the future crystal-clear. The Cochards played by tidier rules, but the game was the same.
Bitterness and anger threatened to blacken the shattered pieces of her heart beyond redemption. She didn’t fight them, not this time. She paid the piper, using her guilt as a shield, her love as a sword.
“Get out, Jaz.” Her voice was flat and hard. “Get out of my life.”
She jerked free of his grasp and strode across the room. Under the blankets, under the torn sheets where they had made love, she found his duffel bag. Against every mental command, her fingers lingered on the worn khaki canvas, the last touch of what was his. Her hand shook, and she clenched it into a fist around the leather strap. Fate’s perfect fool.
Stilling her features into a blank mask, filling her eyes with indifference, she slowly turned to face him. Utter confusion slackened his mouth and crinkled the corners of his eyes. She tossed the duffel bag at his feet.
“It’s been fun, but the party’s over, babe. Get out.” The razor edge of sarcasm was calculated to draw blood. She meant to hurt.
“What in the hell are you talking about?”
“You’re the Academy boy, Jaz. Figure it out for yourself,” she drawled, turning her back to him and flipping the blankets up on the bed.
“Look, Chantal, you’re upset. Anybody would be upset—”
“Save the condolences,” she snapped.
A long, heavy silence stretched out behind her, and her hard-won cynicism began to tremble and weaken. He’d shown her love, not brutality. But the best love she could give him was the self-sacrificing kind, and he would see any hesitation, any lies, in her eyes.
She gave the cabin a dismissive gesture with her hand and went in for the kill. “This is all your fault. You screwed me up at Sandhurst’s and then laid a trail to my front door. I don’t need that kind of help. In other words, no matter how great you are in bed, you’re more trouble than you’re worth.”
Jaz summed up his opinion of her speech in one foul word and came across the cabin for her, kicking the duffel with each stride.
She whirled around and flashed him a steely glare. “Back off, Peterson. I mean it.”
With an action worthy of Pele, he flipped the bag up on the dais. “The luggage stays. I stay. Or you and I both get out. Take your pick, babe.” Granite-flecked eyes dared her to contradict him.
He wasn’t making it easy, but his anger fueled hers, gave her something more to fight with. And she fought dirty.
“What do I have to do? Hit you with a brick?” she asked incredulously, lifting both hands, palms up, in a helpless shrug. “Hey, I admitted it was fun. You’re a great lay, babe. But that’s it. I’ve got a good life here, and with Sandhurst off my tail, maybe I can get on with it. Is that clear enough for you, Peterson?”
No, it wasn’t clear enough for him. Nothing was clear, and it was all he could do not to reach out and shake her. The maddening impulse made his muscles twitch, turned his hands into tight fists at his sides. The royal elf possessed a whiplash tongue, and she had laid him open like a cat-o’-nine, cruelly, in his least-protected place—the part of his heart he’d given to her.
His fault? Maybe. She’d been the one with the mirror in her hand, but he knew she wouldn’t have slipped up if it hadn’t been for him, and he’d been doing his damnedest to make it up to her. More trouble than he was worth? Probably true. But together they were worth more than each of them apart, and it angered him that she’d reduced their magic to the lowest physical denominator.
Or are you the only one in love, Jaz, old boy?
The first ripple of doubt drained the tension out of his hands as he searched the unrelenting depths of her eyes. Had he wanted her so badly that he’d fooled himself? Did he have that much naïveté left?
She held his gaze steadily, without any tenderness. What had made him so cocksure that she belonged to him? he asked himself. He found no answers in her eyes, and if there were lies, he couldn’t find them, either, in the cool emptiness. Many times she’d told him to leave, and of all the times for him to start believing her, this was the worst.
He took one more look in her blue-ice eyes and knew he had lost.
“Okay, Chantal,” he said, walking toward the phone. A pencil and a pad of paper hung from a string on the wall. He jotted something down and ripped off the top page. “This is General Moore’s private line. Cut your own deal, but get out of town for a while.” He came back across the cabin and shoved the paper in the front pocket of her pants. “A smart lady like you will be able to find me if you want me. Cozumel. I’ll stay for a week and close up my shop. Then I’m out of there and you’re on your own.”
He raised his hand as if to touch her, but he didn’t. His fingers were only an inch away from the curve of her cheek, and sl
owly they curled into his palm. He squeezed his eyes shut for an instant, blowing out a deep breath. The effort of his actions tightened his face with strain. Then he opened his eyes to a narrow, piercing gaze, his thick lashes meeting at the outside corners.
“One week, Chantal.” His voice was harsh.
She didn’t make a move to stop him, didn’t open her mouth to cry his name. She flinched when the door slammed behind him, but it was the only weakness she allowed herself. Her feet remained motionless and her heart remained empty long after the sound of the Jeep faded away.
Noon chimes drew her attention to the grandfather clock. One hour until her lunch date with Elise, an hour she’d meant to spend wrapped in Jaz’s arms, stealing his love, touching her mouth to his and making the world and the past go away. Instead only Jaz had gone away.
Pain incised her heart, just a small nick cutting through the protective layer of ice, but it was enough to scare her into action. She couldn’t stay there and wait for the hurt to engulf her. Grabbing her purse and her car keys, she stumbled out of the cabin, pulling the door closed behind her.
Her fingers shook on the busted lock. “Damn them. Damn them.” She forced her concentration onto Angela’s crude boys. All it took was a lockpick and a modicum of skill. It wasn’t like breaking a safe. Anyone could learn how to pick a lock. Anyone! It had probably taken Jaz less than a minute.
Don’t start, Chantal. Don’t start thinking, not yet, not so soon. She dropped the lock as if it were fire and ran down the porch stairs to her car.
* * *
“Do you want me to hold the Jeep until you get back again, Mr. Peterson?”
Jaz looked up from the papers he was signing and into a pair of blue eyes. They were paler, more like aquamarine than sapphire. Her hair was blond, but thick with a hint of red, not gossamer gold. Her nose was straight, without the slight upturn he’d traced with his tongue the night before.
Forget her.
