by Theresa Weir
“I guess you’ll want her to meet Giselle.”
A strange expression flickered over his face. “Mmm.”
“What?”
He touched his jaw, shifted the truck and glanced in the rearview mirror. “I, uh, already made arrangements. She’ll be here this afternoon sometime.”
“You had no right do that without my permission.”
“I know.” He sighed. “I’m sorry. I did it last night when I was feeling so blown away. If you want me to take you to the hotel now, I will. Marcia doesn’t know it’s you guys—I just told her there was somebody I wanted her to meet.”
Jessie stared at him, holding the warm weight of her child against her, and suddenly realized it was not only Jessie who was upset by all this. Luke, too, had to grapple with the demons of the past. “No,” she said. “It’ll be all right.”
He gave her a grateful smile and reached over to touch her hand. “Thanks, Jessie.”
All at once she realized how much she had relaxed in his company. He was so damned easy to be around, so easy to talk to. He never seemed to expect anyone to be anything except just what they were.
Alarmed, she moved her hand gently from his and saw a ripple of hurt cross his features. Pressing her lips together, she resolutely turned her face to the window. “It’s only fair.”
His voice sounded tired as he said, “Fair doesn’t have much to do with any of this.”
“No,” she agreed softly. “I guess it doesn’t.”
Chapter 5
At Luke’s house, he gave Jessie the keys. “I’ll get Giselle. Why don’t you get the door open?”
“I don’t mind, Luke. I carry her all the time.”
He shrugged. “I don’t.”
Jessie moved out of his way, watching as he scooped the child into his arms, shifting so her head fell on his shoulder. In spite of herself, Jessie smiled. Giselle’s mouth hung slack and her arms flopped around Luke’s shoulders.
As they neared the porch, a small yellow car pulled in front of the house, and a woman got out. Wearing an ivory serape striped with orange, she had ribbons of black hair cloaking her small, slim body, and a face open and mischievous at once.
Marcia.
Jessie glanced at Luke, then back to Marcia, who crossed the yard eagerly.
Marcia caught sight of Luke, with the child draped over his shoulder, then glanced at Jessie. A tangle of emotions crossed her mobile face—surprise, dismay, joy, excitement.
In twenty years, Jessie thought in astonishment, Giselle would look exactly like this woman. Exactly. And Giselle had inherited that same buoyant energy.
“Oh, my God,” Marcia cried at last, breaking the silent tableau on the lawn. “Jessie.” She shook her head, coming forward to take Jessie’s hands in hers. “Daniel didn’t tell me it was you.”
“I’m beginning to think Daniel had an agenda that had nothing to do with the project.” Jessie clasped Marcia’s small, cold hands in her own, tightly. “It’s so good to see you.”
“Ditto.” She laughed and hugged Jessie fiercely, then moved toward Luke. “She’s your daughter?”
Luke turned slightly, nodding. “She’s sound asleep right now. I’m gonna lay her down and you can talk to her later.”
Bustling forward, Jessie unlocked the door and stepped out of the way. Luke gave her a smile as he moved by, and somehow it lightened her heart a little. She smiled back, brushing the top of Giselle’s head as she passed.
Marcia flung off her serape and dropped a big canvas bag on the couch. “I have to get a couple of things from the car,” she said, pausing at the door. For a moment, she seemed at a loss for words. “I—Daniel didn’t tell me—” She shook her head. “I didn’t know you and Luke’s old girlfriend were the same person.”
Jessie raised an eyebrow. Obviously, Daniel had known all of it. If he knew Marcia and Luke, Jessie and Giselle, there was no way he had not put all the pieces together.
“I think Daniel was pretty careful to make sure none of us figured it out.”
Marcia lifted her eyebrows and slipped out the door.
Then she popped back in and gave Jessie another quick, excited hug. “When I was eighteen, I had the most terrible crush on you. I wanted to grow up and be just like you. It broke my heart when you left.”
From the archway between the kitchen and living room, Luke spoke in a calm, but very firm voice. “Marcia.”
She rolled her eyes, but squeezed Jessie’s hand. “Back in a flash.”
Jessie turned toward Luke with a grin.
“She keeps going and going and going,” Luke said with a shake of his head. “See what I mean?”
Jessie laughed. “Yes.”
He gestured toward the kitchen. “Come on. Let’s make those biscuits. I’m starving!”
His kitchen seemed to be the heart of his house, Jessie noted as she shed her coat and followed him in. The rest, though warm enough, was rather neat and plain. On the counters in the kitchen were stacks of mail and magazines, a pile of paperback books, a basket of small woodworking tools. By the back door slumped a spare pair of boots. Magnets stuck notes to the fridge, notes scrawled in his large, bold hand—Meet Smith 9 am For Stairs. Buy Stamps!
Reading the notes, Jessie smiled to herself.
“What?” Luke asked, taking down bowls and a canister of flour.
She shifted her smile to include him. “Nothing. Do you have an apron? I can’t do this without getting flour all over me.”
“Maybe.” He pulled open a drawer and dug below a stack of kitchen towels.
It struck Jessie that he was not, like many men, at a disadvantage without a woman to organize his household. “You know, it surprises me that you’ve never gotten married,” she said suddenly.
He gave her the apron he’d found in the drawer and straightened to give her a rakish smile, tossing a thick lock of hair from his forehead. “I’ve been waitin’ for you.”
“Oh.” She laughed, caught off guard by his teasing. Recovering, she added, “I seem to have that effect on men.”
He chuckled as he put the stew on. Marcia came in, carrying a soft leather briefcase. She sat at the table. “Do you all want to talk for a minute? I had news from Daniel this morning.”
Luke adjusted the flame under a pot of stew and turned. “Sure.”
“What did he say?” Jessie measured flour into a bowl, unconcerned. Daniel treated everything as if it were an urgent issue. It was a method of getting things done, she supposed, but sometimes made him seem like the boy crying wolf.
Marcia opened the briefcase. “The other night, someone slaughtered some of the weavers’ sheep.”
Jessie looked at Luke. “The blood on my car?”
“My guess.”
“They got your car?” Marcia asked with a frown as she riffled through the papers before her to pull out a single sheet. “That makes me uncomfortable. It means somebody knows what we’re doing all the time.”
“That’s what I said this morning. It might be time to pull back a little. That’s four or five incidents in just under a week.”
Marcia shook her head. “We can’t—not just yet. When Daniel called from Dallas this morning, he was worried about the weavers. Before he flew out yesterday, some of them talked to him. They’re scared. There’s a lot of talk of witches. He’s worried everyone is going to pull out of the project.”
Luke swore.
“I know. The trouble is, a lot of them were pretty wary of the project to begin with. They were afraid that if they got rich, they’d draw attention to themselves and get witched.”
Jessie nodded, remembering some of the early meetings she had attended with Daniel when he’d set the whole thing up. “He seemed to convince most of them, though.”
“Ah, hell,” Luke groaned, drawing a hand over his face. “Witches?”
“You might not take it seriously, dear heart,” Marcia said with raised brows, “but a lot of people still do. And whoever is behind the harassment know
s that and is using it. Animals slaughtered and noises on the roofs of hogans—they’re trying to scare the weavers off.”
“And it’s working,” Jessie said.
Marcia nodded. “Unfortunately. But I think it’s more than that, too. I talked with a grandmother early on and told her how much she could earn—” She shook her head with a rueful smile. “She laughed hysterically. No matter what I said, she didn’t believe me. I think that’s part of the problem now. They’ve never really earned what was possible for these rugs. Now they don’t believe they can.”
“So what now?” Jessie asked, folding her arms.
“Daniel wants to have another big meeting to reassure the weavers that no matter what, they aren’t gonna lose. If the dealers won’t pay what they should, we’re prepared to open galleries of our own.”
“That doesn’t really address the witch problem, though.”
“I know. We’re going to lose some of the traditionals no matter what, but maybe if we find this ‘witch,’ some of the people on the fence will be reassured.”
Jessie idly stirred the flour with a fork, pursing her lips as she tried to think of anyone she’d met who might be a likely culprit. She shook her head when no one came to mind. “When is Daniel planning to do this meeting?”
“I don’t know. As soon as possible.” Marcia glanced toward the window, frowning. “Trouble is, he’s stuck in Dallas and doesn’t know if he can get away. He’s going to call me here tomorrow and let me know what’s going on.”
“So, in the meantime are we supposed to meet the gallery owner tomorrow?” Luke asked.
“Definitely. Word is, this guy is pretty sympathetic. He might be a big help.”
Jessie nodded. “I’ve heard that, too.” Turning toward the waiting bowl of flour, she measured baking powder and salt and stirred them together.
“Wait,” Luke said. “You’re supposed to be showing me how.”
Marcia stood up. “How long till lunch is ready? I’d like to take a quick shower.”
“You have time,” Luke told her.
When she left, Luke stepped close to Jessie, close enough that she could smell the faintly foresty scent of his skin and feel his warmth along her side. A quiver rippled over her spine. Resolutely, she ignored it and stirred the flour. “The trick to making good biscuits,” she advised, “is you can’t bother the dough too much.”
“Why don’t you walk me through it?” he suggested, taking the fork from her hand. “‘Teach a man to fish…’”
“And he’ll teach his woman to clean it.” She grinned. “Next step is the margarine. It has to be cut in, not worked in with your hands. That’s what makes the biscuits flaky.”
He gave her a quick glance, and Jessie felt the impact of his dark eyes all the way to her toes. Nostalgia again. Or was it? He was still so damned delectable. To avoid that sensual, beautiful face, she focused on his hands. Mistake number two. The long brown fingers were deft and graceful, and Jessie found herself admiring the lean strength of his wrists and the vein that ran down his forearm. In her mind’s eye, she saw herself tracing the length of that vein, into the hollow of his palm, saw herself—Stop it!
Once the margarine and flour had been cut into tiny nuggets, she led him through the stirring. “No more than twenty strokes.” When the flour was moistened, she nodded. “Good. Now, the crucial part. You have to knead it, but only just a little.”
She watched as he dipped his hand in the canister and scattered flour on the counter, then upturned the bowl with the slightly sticky dough. With the heel of his palm, he folded the ball over itself, kneading with sure, strong movements. “How do I know when to stop?” he asked.
“By feel, really.” She reached out and pressed two fingers into the dough. “A little more. It should feel pliant, but firm.”
“Ah—like a breast,” he said with an evil grin.
Jessie’s gaze flew to his hands, and an odd heat seeped through her. Dough made her think of skin anyway, and now, watching his beautiful, strong fingers curve around the plump roundness of the biscuits, the analogy was all too appropriate. Once more, she was assailed with awareness—the heat of his hip so close to hers, the movements of his skillful hands and the glossy fall of his hair around his neck.
Her body tingled and she found herself swaying ever so slightly toward him, awash with a deep, sensual hunger. More than anything—more than food or air—she wanted him, wanted to taste his mouth and touch his hair and feel her body pressed against the hard, long length of him.
“Is this enough?” he asked.
Jolted, she lifted her eyes and found him gazing down at her with a faintly amused expression around his lips. Get real, Jessie, she told herself, and taking a breath, tested the dough again. “I think so. Now roll it out about an inch thick, so you have fluffy biscuits.”
His eyes crinkled. “Gotcha.” Deftly, he cut the dough with a water glass and paused to admire the raw biscuits on their pan. “My mouth is watering already.”
“Mine, too.” The smell of the herbed stew filled the air. “That doesn’t smell like rabbit, though.”
He laughed. “It’s beef.”
“You’re a terrible tease,” she said, shaking her head.
“No, actually I’m good at it.” He dodged to avoid her playful smack on his arm and slid the biscuits into the hot oven. Jessie found her eyes lingering on his long back, found herself remembering…
With a deep breath, she turned away and began to sweep the flour leavings into the empty bowl. She started when Luke stood beside her. “I’ll do that,” he offered.
“I don’t mind.”
“Well, can I clean you up, then?”
Jessie looked down. Flour clung to her waist and breasts in a perfect intimation of the shapes below. “Honestly,” she complained, brushing furiously at her front. “I can’t even help without making a mess!”
“Hold on,” he said, catching her chin with two floury fingers, “you have some on your face, too.”
Jessie went still. Her gaze snagged in the gentle, persistent probe of his own, and she felt the flour dust on his fingers as they slid along her jaw, not at all businesslike. In his eyes was an expression she couldn’t identify.
Yes, she could. Her mouth went dry.
In those impossibly dark eyes was a promise of lingering kisses and slow hands and all his opiate sensuality focused entirely upon her. As if to illustrate, his fingers floated higher, caressing the curve of her jaw and the edge of her earlobe. His thumb drifted to the edge of her lower lip and lingered there with a touch as light as a cat’s whisker.
In memory and anticipation, Jessie’s hips softened. Her breasts tingled and a slow pounding moved in her middle. Luke said nothing, but simply held her gaze for a long time, moving his fingers in whispery caresses over her face.
Then just as slowly, he moved away, leaving Jessie leaning against the counter for support, her heart thrumming with fear and disappointment in equal measures.
Her guard was slipping. If he’d bent to kiss her just then, she would not have had the strength or the will to resist him.
No. That wasn’t even close to accurate. Not only would she not have resisted, she’d been dying for that kiss. Had been since this morning. She didn’t want just a light, teasing brush of the lips of the sort he’d given in the mountains. She wanted the dark, deep kisses she remembered, the kind that made a woman forget everything she ever thought she knew about men and desire.
The drift of her thoughts hit her with the impact of a snowball in the face. Had she lost her mind already? It had literally taken her years to overcome the loss of Luke Bernali. She could not let it start again. It was too dangerous, too overwhelming for both of them.
Carefully, she untied her apron. “Luke.”
He looked up, and all the teasing was gone from his face, leaving behind the raw, harsh planes and a tight mouth. “Don’t, Jessie.”
“I just think—”
“I already know what y
ou’re going to say.” A muscle in his jaw tensed. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“What, are you a mind reader now?”
His eyes narrowed and he lifted a slightly sardonic brow. “You’re going to tell me again how this whole thing is driving you crazy, how you can’t handle it, how it would be better if we just keep things all smooth and even, right? Pretend nothing ever happened?”
“Luke, I don’t want to fight—”
“Yes, you do.” His voice was dangerously soft. “You could never just say what you were thinking, just tell me how you felt. It’s easier to fight. Maybe you should just be honest with yourself for once.”
“What makes you think you have all the answers?” Her hands shook with emotion and she folded them together across her breasts, feeling strangely bare under his sharp, dark gaze. “You always acted like you knew everything there was to know about everything and I was supposed to follow along in your wise footsteps—”
“No,” he said, turning away. His eyes closed for an instant and he bent his head. When he spoke, there was deep weariness in his voice. “That was you, Jess. You made me some kind of hero.” With a bitter twist of his lips, he looked at her. “Guess I showed you, huh? Made sure you saw my feet of clay.”
Jessie stared at him, unwillingly hearing the truth of his words. The moment stretched between them, reverberating with a hundred things, a thousand things—betrayal and sorrow and love. So much love.
On his face was a fierceness—the fierceness he adopted to protect his gentle heart, a heart she had once known so well and had vowed to help protect. Instead, she’d learned the same old lesson over again. Not even love could save someone bent on destroying himself.
She backed away. “I don’t think you’ll ever know how much I loved you, Luke,” she said in a bloodless voice. “I don’t think you could.”
Before she could completely humiliate herself, she fled the kitchen.
* * *
Luke didn’t know where she went. The front door slammed, and he let her go, straightening the kitchen automatically. He set the table, struggling for his lost sense of balance. When there was no more busywork for his hands, he rolled a cigarette and leaned on the sink to look out the window. Another dark storm was rolling in over the mountains, and by the look of it, he thought there would be snow tonight. He welcomed it. Snow calmed things.
