by Theresa Weir
In his chest was a thick, pounding ache. Lower was an entirely different kind of ache, a desire so fierce he didn’t know how he could keep it at bay for another twenty-four hours.
He liked women in general, and in general, they liked him. His ease with them was something he had grown up with, like his skill with carpentry and a love of science fiction. But with Jessie, it was always different—it had never been easy or simple or light with her.
No woman had ever affected him the way she did, slipped under his skin and moved there like she belonged in his blood. No woman made him feel like he was fourteen again, so hungry to lie down with her that he couldn’t breathe or sleep without thinking of it.
I don’t think you’ll ever know how much I loved you.
From the door, Marcia spoke. “Did you know she was coming?” As always when they were alone, she spoke Navajo, believing it was her duty to keep her brother fluent in the language of their childhood.
He exhaled and stubbed out his cigarette, shaking his head. “No.”
“Must have been quite a shock. Are you okay?”
He looked up. His sister’s hair was damp at the edges from her shower, and her mischievous arrangement of features held a sober, concerned expression. “You see, I am alive,” he said, quoting an old Navajo blessing.
Marcia smiled in appreciation. “And how does it feel after all this time?”
He touched the knot of unsorted emotions in his chest. “I’ll have to get back to you on that.”
“Do you want me to leave?” She lifted her brows. “Let you two work all this out on your own?”
“There’s no working it out, Marcia. Too much water under the bridge.” Even he could hear the deep regret in his voice.
Marcia made a noncommittal noise.
“Don’t get any ideas,” he said in English. Once he’d been through detox and managed to stay sober for a while, Marcia had urged him repeatedly to see if he could find Jessie and make amends. Wounded and ashamed, he had resisted, accepting the loss of her as his punishment. Now he wondered what might have happened if he had.
Giselle wandered out of the bedroom then, her hair tangled and her eyes sleepy. “Where’s my mom?” she asked, looking alarmed.
Luke brushed past Marcia and took Giselle’s hand. “She just went out for a walk. She’ll be right back, and then we can eat lunch.”
The odd wariness in her eyes was so much like Jessie, Luke hugged her close. “Come here, honey. Remember I told you about your Aunt Marcia?” He drew her forward. “This is her.”
Another adult might have handled the situation any number of ways, but Marcia instantly knelt and held out her arms. “I’m so happy to meet you!” she exclaimed. “You’re my only niece—and do you see how alike we are? Look at your hair! And I bet you have a dimple in your cheek, don’t you? Like me!”
Giselle laughed, emerging from her sleepy shyness to fling herself into Marcia’s hug. Marcia moved side to side in exuberance. “We’re going to have a wonderful time getting to know each other.”
She pulled back, and in Navajo said, “Do you know about your grandmother?”
Giselle replied in the same tongue, halting but clear. “My mother didn’t know much about her. But that’s why she works with the weavers. For my grandmother.”
Marcia smiled in satisfaction, smoothing Giselle’s hair from her face. “Your mother has done well, sweetheart,” she said. “Go wash your face and hands now. We’re going to eat in a minute.”
She ran off to comply. For a moment, Marcia didn’t move as she stared after the girl. Finally she stood and looked at Luke, giving him a big smile. “Pretty neat.”
“I agree.” He suddenly remembered the biscuits and rushed into the kitchen, rescuing them just in time. “I guess we’ll have to eat without Jessie.”
“I’m here,” she called from the back door.
Her voice, husky for a woman, rasped along Luke’s nerves and pooled in his gut. He steeled himself before he turned. It didn’t help. Her long hair rippled over her shoulders and arms and back, and her sweater clung sweetly to the curves of her breast and waist. He forced himself to look away.
He put the biscuits in a bowl. “Let’s eat.”
It was late for lunch. Until the edge had been taken from their appetites, no one had much to say. Once the worst of their hunger was appeased, the conversation turned to general small talk, spurred on by Marcia, who spread her cheerful good nature over the table like a fine cloth, easing the tension between Luke and Jessie with her usual skill. Luke had often thought she would be an outstanding diplomat.
Unlike Luke, she’d never felt an alien in any walk of life. She was adamantly proud of her Navajo roots, of her culture the way it had been taught by their parents, and so felt comfortable on the res. But she had been very small when they came to Colorado, and was equally at home among urban Indians and the various cultures she’d grown up with. He envied her that ease sometimes. At ten, he’d felt like an alien in the Anglo schools. By the time he felt at home there, he hadn’t been sure he would ever fit in on the res again.
It wasn’t that he was uncomfortable with himself or his roots, just that sometimes there was a schism between his childhood and his adult life, a separation that never quite seemed bridged.
Giselle finished her lunch, but still looked a little weary. “Can I go watch TV for a while?” she asked her mother.
“I don’t mind if Luke doesn’t,” Jessie replied, looking at him for the first time since her walk.
“I don’t mind at all. The channel changer is on the lamp table.”
“Do you get Nickelodeon?”
He grinned. “Yep. Channel thirty-two, I think.”
Giselle nodded. To Marcia, she said, “Would you like to watch with me?”
“I’d love to.” With a wink toward the others, she stood up and took Giselle’s hand.
Jessie began to clear plates. “Why don’t you go in there with them? I’ll clean up.”
He touched her hand. “No. We can do that in a minute. I’d like to talk to you.”
She sank into the chair, brushing the hair away from her face. He waited patiently until she looked at him with her pale topaz eyes, and it was nearly his undoing. Her mouth, so plump and sensual, was set in hard lines, but he could see the vulnerability there, the terror. It irritated him momentarily. “Relax, Jessie. I’m not gonna ravish you or anything.”
The dart found home. A flicker of pain touched her eyes, but she simply pressed her lips together.
“Sorry,” he said, shoving his bowl out of his way, “none of this is easy.”
“I know.”
He took a calming breath. “Look, I’m a little worried about the way your car was targeted. I’d feel a lot better if you and Giselle would stay here tonight.”
“It’s not for you,” he said, and didn’t regret the harshness in his voice this time. “I don’t want Giselle hurt.”
“I know who it’s for,” she retorted sharply. “That doesn’t mean coming here would be any easier for me. Believe me, I can take care of my daughter. I’ve been doing it for years.”
Embarrassed male pride rose in his throat and he felt his chin lift. “Marcia’s here as chaperon if that’s what you’re worried about.”
She made an exasperated noise and in a gesture he long remembered, shoved her fingers back through her hair, away from her face. “A little while ago, you asked me to be honest with myself and with you.” She dropped her arms on the table, leaning forward to face him squarely. “This is as honest as it gets—I don’t want to examine the past. I don’t want it coming up at every turn. It’s too painful and it was too long ago. If we can’t find some way to be in each other’s company without all those ghosts, I can’t handle it.”
“Pax, then,” he said. “I don’t think I can pretend like I never knew you. That’s too hard. But I can promise I won’t bring up any of the bad stuff, okay?”
“Nothing. Not good or bad.” She swallowed,
but her gaze didn’t waver. “It isn’t the bad stuff that’s hard for me.”
A swelter of mingled desire and pain rose in him at that. He wanted to reach across the table and grab her hand, press it to his mouth. Instead, he gave her a simple nod. “You’ll stay here?”
She studied him, and he watched her thoughts play in kaleidoscopic whirls over the surface of her eyes. Finally she replied, “Yes. It’s safer.”
Luke fought the smile that threatened, fought the hope her acquiescence gave him. As long as she didn’t run away, there was a chance…
He heard his thoughts and mentally swore. What the hell was he thinking? “I’ll take you over to get your car.”
Chapter 6
When Luke turned on the ignition, the sound of Van Morrison filled the cab, and Jessie couldn’t bear the nostalgic emotions it aroused. “Do you mind if we don’t listen to that?”
“I thought you liked him.” He punched the button to eject the tape.
“I do. Just not right now, okay?”
“No problem.”
So it was in silence they traveled. Luke didn’t attempt to make small talk, and Jessie was grateful. In the quiet darkness, with thick, fat snowflakes drifting down from a sky made pink with reflected city lights, she felt herself relaxing. On the horizon loomed the mountains, great shadows. She shifted to look up at the sky through the window, watching tree branches pass in a blur. “The light here is so different than anywhere I’ve ever been,” she said softly. “I still think about it—the way it comes through the canyon at Ute Pass on summer evenings and the way the dawn makes the mountains turn pink.”
“I like it when it’s been raining.” His voice, too, was hushed. One hand drew a sketch in the air as he spoke. “Late afternoon, when the clouds are starting to move on and the sun breaks through—it’s the only time you can see there are valleys up there.”
“I remember. And evenings last such a long time, soft and gray and forever.”
“Yeah.”
They pulled into the hotel parking lot. “I had a buddy of mine look the car over and check the engine. He took it to a car wash and got the sheep blood off, too. Should be okay.”
“How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing.” He pulled up alongside her car. “He owed me a favor.”
Jessie put her hand on the door handle. “Thanks. I’ll gather up our things and see you back at the house.”
He turned off the engine. “I’ll help you.”
“I can manage, Luke, really.” She desperately wanted a few moments alone, away from the lure of him, a few minutes in which she could think.
“I know you can,” he said with a grin. “Why don’t you let me be a gentleman?”
She opened her mouth to voice another protest, but he was already out on his side, slamming the door. So much for a few minutes to think.
A little annoyed, Jessie fell in step beside him. Snow fell around them, swirling in the still night, catching in his dark hair like jewels. As they climbed the steps to the second floor, she noticed their legs moved in perfect harmony, left, right, left. Their feet hit the stairs at the exact same instant, too, as if they were stepping in tune to some unheard rhythm. Deliberately, she double-stepped to break the harmony.
Foolishness. Even without their legs moving in step, she could smell the evocative scent of his skin, an aroma so fraught with associations it was nearly overpowering. And without his scent, she would have to contend with the almost magical beauty of snow in his hair and the perfect angles of his face and the faint quirk of humor on his lips.
She realized she was humming under her breath again. Same song. Flushing, she stopped instantly.
At the door, she dug the key out of her purse, but before she could fit it into the lock, Luke took her arm. Standing close, his body protecting her from the cold, he said, “You know, Jessie, if you really are on fire, all you have to do is say so.” With a glitter of teasing in his eyes, he lifted her hand to his lips and pressed his mouth to her palm.
The press of that once-beloved mouth sent a wave of almost overwhelming need through her. Stunned, she stared at him, felt the heat and moisture of his tongue behind his lips, felt the smooth line of his jaw against her fingers.
Then he let her go, took the key from her and opened the door.
* * *
Much later, Jessie shifted irritably on the couch for the hundredth time, overheated and restless in the tangled blankets that made her bed. Around her, the house was silent with the sleep of the others. She had no idea how long they’d all been so silent, how long she’d been lying there, filled with memories. Hours.
No matter how she adjusted the pillows or shifted positions, the minute she closed her eyes, all she saw was Luke against the screen of her imagination. Luke diving into a mountain lake, or dashing into the ocean, or working in the heat of a summer day, his skin gleaming. Luke laughing as he joined her in the shower, or made love to her under the stars in a meadow.
It was much more difficult than she had imagined to lie here in his living room and know, only yards away, he slept in a bed that smelled of him, his hair tousled and his mouth soft in sleep. It would be so easy to get up and go to him, to slip off the twisted gown she wore and crawl below the covers with him, touch him and kiss him gently until he awakened. She knew he would welcome her, that he would turn and pull her close to the heat and elegance of his skin. And then he would kiss her…
With an aggravated sigh, she threw off her blanket and put on her robe. She wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight. She remembered there were books in the kitchen. She’d just make a cup of tea and read for a while—all night if necessary. Anything had to be better than this.
Creeping quietly through the sleeping house, she went to the kitchen. The overhead light was a harsh fluorescent, and she groaned as it flickered on. A fat candle sat on the table beside Luke’s tobacco and cigarette papers. She reached for the candle, but found the tobacco in her hands instead. With a wave of longing, she lifted the bag to her nose and took a long, hungry whiff.
Alarmed, she put it back down and lit the candle, then flipped off the overhead light. Better.
Her restless sense of arousal began to fade as she heated water and found the mugs and tea. Amid the stacks of books and magazines, she found a promising thriller and settled at the table with the comfort of the very hot tea at her elbow. Her father, an Irish immigrant, had insisted tea could cure almost anything. While there were exceptions, Jessie had found it could come close.
She tried to read, even managed to turn a page or two without having the faintest idea what had transpired on the page. Disappointed, she put the book aside, and her attention fell on the pouch of tobacco again.
She bit her lip. Smoking was a stupid habit. She’d been free for two months. Well, seven weeks. Actually, only three if she counted the cigarette she sneaked at a friend’s house.
Progress, though. She was making progress.
Her hand crept of its own accord over the table and caught the bag. She opened it and touched the tobacco inside, a familiar sense of irritation running along her nerves. They’d invented fat-free cream cheese, for heaven’s sake—couldn’t they come up with a safe cigarette? Like tea, cigarettes didn’t disappoint a person. They were there when you needed them.
Too bad they killed you.
Biting her lip, she pulled the pouch open. Dieters were allowed to backslide sometimes. One slice of cheesecake didn’t mean the diet had failed. One cigarette, particularly since she would never, ever smoke in front of Giselle again, wouldn’t mean she’d failed, either. She took out a paper, trying to remember how Luke rolled them.
A little noise in the other room made her jump, and she dropped everything guiltily, pushing it all away from her. One of the cats raced into the kitchen, chasing a knitted ball, and started when he saw Jessie. She chuckled to herself and bent over to push the ball for the creature.
With a sigh, Jessie picked up the cigarette makings again,
shaking her head even as she rolled it. The first one was a little lumpy and strange looking, so she tore it apart and started over. At least this little quandary had taken Luke out of her mind. Maybe if she smoked a cigarette, she’d feel more capable of handling the whole situation.
The second one she rolled turned out much better. She held it for a moment, her noble side trying to convince her weak side that she could still turn back. It wasn’t too late. This cigarette could be torn apart just as the first one had been, and Jessie would be triumphant over her silly habit once again.
The weak side won. She put it in her mouth and bent over the candle, a kind of giddy excitement filling her. It was so evil—and so good—to smoke.
The cigarette caught and Jessie inhaled, slowly, savoring the sharp, acrid bite of the smoke in her lungs, and blew it out with a gusty sigh of enjoyment.
“Now there’s a sound that would curl the Surgeon General’s hair.”
Jessie choked a little and, coughing, whirled to find Luke standing negligently in the doorway, one arm braced against the arch. His chest and feet were bare, his long legs clad in a pair of black sweats that rode low on his hips. His chest was burnished and brown, his stomach flat. A line of black hair ran down his belly. Dazzled, Jessie stared at him and felt a wave of longing so intense, it nearly made her ill. She told herself it was the cigarette.
The cigarette. She looked at it in her fingers, then back to Luke. “Are you going to scold me and make me put it out?”
“I’d rather take a bone from a pit bull.”
“Good.” Jessie took another drag, and a familiar wave of dizziness tingled in her veins. “Ah,” she said, “now the poisons are kicking in.”
He took a mug from the cupboard and made himself a cup of tea from the water still in the kettle. “Something tells me you weren’t really ready to give up your bad habit.”
