by Pamela Aares
“We can always go a short way and turn around,” he said gently.
He seemed to be able to read her thoughts. Or her face perhaps.
“I’ll be fine. It’s not like we need pickaxes or anything.”
“I’m hoping not.” But his grin didn’t reach his eyes. He was still surveying her tennis shoes.
When she didn’t say anything else, he shrugged and slung the pack onto his back.
She was in the woods with a man. And she was one hundred percent out of her element. She sucked in a breath, inhaling the aroma of the forest of evergreens stretching a shady canopy over their heads. A knot of tension that had clenched around her ribs loosened as they walked in the dappled light to the trailhead.
They stopped in front of a sign with park information. He traced a finger along the bright red ribbon of color marking the trail.
“If we make it to the top, we’ll see Mount Tamalpais to the south and Mount Diablo to the east. It’s clear enough today, so we might even see the Sierra Crest and Mount Lassen. I’ve heard people say you occasionally can see Mount Shasta almost two hundred miles to the north.”
She heard the anticipation in his voice and vowed she’d make it to the top; she wasn’t about to be the reason he didn’t get to accomplish what he’d set out to do. And she’d never seen such a perspective. She’d come across the country on a bus. If she’d flown she might’ve had a better sense of the terrain, but back in those days flying wasn’t in her budget. Wasn’t now either. But she imagined taking Tyler on a plane. He’d love it. She resolved to save money from her new job and treat him to one of the local plane tours for his birthday.
Next to the map, a dense block of text surrounded a photo of Robert Louis Stevenson and his wife. The couple had that old-fashioned stern look that early photographs always seemed to capture.
Adrian consulted a pocket-sized guidebook he’d pulled from his pack. “It says here that in the 1880s, Stevenson and his wife spent their honeymoon at an abandoned bunkhouse of an old mining camp. It’s gone now, but there’s a marker farther up the trail.” He turned to her. “I’ve read some of his accounts of that time. Imagine living for two months with makeshift cloth windows and having to haul water in by hand.”
“It sounds romantic,” she said, wishing that she could put aside her troubles and spend a lazy few days in such a quiet, remote setting. And she shocked herself when she realized that she’d imagined Adrian into her fantasy.
“Do you like his work?” he asked as they started along the trail.
His question snapped her attention back from her daydream. “Pardon me?”
“Stevenson’s work—do you like it? A Child’s Garden of Verses? My mother used to read his stories to me and my siblings when we were young.”
She’d never read anything by Stevenson. And she sure couldn’t remember anything her mother had read to her except for The Cat in the Hat. And forget her foster parents. The only things they’d read regularly were lottery tickets.
“No, I’m not familiar with his stories.” She felt a pang of guilt that she’d never been able to read stories to Tyler. Except for the really simple ones.
“It is not so much for its beauty that the forest makes a claim upon men’s hearts, as for that subtle something, that quality of air that emanation from old trees, that so wonderfully changes and renews a weary spirit.
“We must accept life for what it actually is—a challenge to our quality without which we should never know of what stuff we are made, or grow to our full stature.”
“You remember all that?”
“Had to. If we didn’t memorize one poem or a set of famous quotations each month, we weren’t allowed to go to Rome to—” He broke off. “I almost forgot the rules. Let’s just say we weren’t allowed treats that were important to us.” He gazed into the distance as if trying to pull back the memories. “I always wanted my mother to read the tales of scalawags and pirates or the Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, but those made my sisters cry.” He laughed. “They wanted stories about princesses. I don’t remember how my mother reached a compromise.”
“I think I would have liked your mother.”
He touched his hand to a strand of hair that had pulled loose from her hairband and tucked it behind her ear. “I know you would have. And I’m sure she would’ve liked you too.”
Natasha’s thoughts drifted as the trail wandered pleasantly through the forest. Staying with their agreement, they skirted talk of their present circumstances, avoided information that would identify them in the here and now.
But wasn’t this the here and now? Wasn’t walking in the forest with him as real as anything she’d felt in ages?
In spite of their rules, abridged versions of their life stories began to flow. She asked him about his mother and was touched by his stories of his childhood in Rome. He asked her about her childhood, and she was happy that she had one solid memory of her mother to share. Tears stung, wanting to flow as she told him of going together to see a ballet rehearsal and her mother coming down off the stage and cuddling her during a break. But she wasn’t going to cry and ruin a lovely afternoon.
She felt affection bloom as they walked and talked, felt it twine with desire, a desire that had pulsed in her since meeting him, refusing to pause.
They shared water, and the simple passing of the blue plastic bottle took on a feeling of intimacy. The more they talked, the harder it was for her to hide the circumstances of her life. She couldn’t pinpoint when it happened, but she knew that she’d let him into her heart. Into a place no man had ever been before. And that scared her more than anything.
Not sharing the truth with him was beginning to feel all wrong. But she sure wasn’t ready to tell him about Tyler, or her disability, or the fact that she was living in a homeless shelter. Not yet. And she’d be lying to herself if she thought that there’d ever be a good time to tell him the facts of her life.
After about twenty minutes, the trail broke out above the forest, affording them a sweeping view of the valley in the distance. But as she surveyed the path stretching out toward the top of the mountain, the reality of the climb ahead hit her. She surveyed the steep path and cursed her tennis shoes. They squeezed her toes, and several blisters were already starting to form.
Without the shelter of the trees, the wind whipped through her hoodie. The sweat from the exertion of hard hiking clung to her skin, soaking her cotton T-shirt and chilling her. Goosebumps formed on her legs. She shouldn’t have worn shorts. But goosebumps were the least of her worries.
“You’re cold,” Adrian said as he dropped the pack to the ground and rummaged through it. He held her windbreaker for her as she slipped into it. Her fingers were like icicles as she fumbled with the zipper.
He bent down and closed his hand over hers.
“Let me help you.”
She dropped her hands to her sides and watched his hands as he fit the zipper together and tugged it up to just below her chin.
Their gazes met.
So close, their breaths mingled, and she felt the heat of his against her cheek.
She raised her hand and traced her finger along the strong plane of his jaw.
Longing drew her closer. She felt held in his gaze in a way that soothed even as it unsettled. He touched his lips gently to hers, inviting, asking. She closed her eyes, swallowing the dark shadow of fear that rose in her throat and met his invitation by parting her lips.
He pressed his hand to her waist and drew her closer. She felt the strong muscles of his back under her palms as she pressed her body to his. His tongue teased hers, and she melted into the dizzying bliss of their kiss. This melting, transporting bliss was what kissing a man was supposed to feel like. This was what movies showed and stories talked about.
But her mind kicked into higher gear and she saw herself kissing him as if she stood at a great distance. As his tongue teased hers, a voice rose in her, cautioning her, telling her not to follow her impulse, r
eminding her of the fool’s path she’d already traveled when it came to men. Fear had her pulling away.
She couldn’t look at him, didn’t want to meet his gaze. Was sure she wouldn’t know how to meet whatever she saw there. A chill skittered through her, and she shivered.
He stepped back and took off his jacket, wrapped it around her shoulders over her flimsy windbreaker.
And his scent rose from the cloth, teasing and taunting her.
“I have to cry uncle,” she said, meeting his gaze from under her lashes. She hoped he couldn’t read the blush of misery and uncertainty and near unbridled wanting that crept up her throat.
He tilted his head. “Uncle?”
A nervous laugh escaped her. “You don’t cry uncle in Italy?”
He shook his head.
“It’s a child’s game. You say uncle when you’ve had enough. Or in this case, when you can’t go on.”
He shouldn’t have kissed her. He knew from her shocked reaction that someone had hurt her. Some man had hurt her. He’d guessed earlier but hadn’t felt right about asking. Blast her stupid rules. No, not her rules; he’d gone along. They’d served him as well, still did. He wanted—needed—to know that if she cared for him it wasn’t because of his money. She wore designer tennis shoes, had the vocabulary of someone well educated, and they’d met at a high-end charity event, so the gap he sensed between them probably wasn’t that big. But he wasn’t ready to reveal himself, not yet. Besides, after what he’d just done, he had no right to ask her to change their agreement, to give up something that she obviously felt protected her.
“Tasha, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s my fault, not yours,” she said. “I should’ve said something earlier. I’m not in shape for an outing like this.”
Evidently she didn’t want to talk about the kiss. Fine. He didn’t know what he could’ve said anyway. That he’d gotten carried away? That he barely had control of his impulses when he was around her? That he wanted to kiss her again?
And he should’ve paid more attention, should’ve seen that she was struggling on the trail. But she’d seemed strong. And he’d been distracted by the beauty of the place, by the beauty of the woman. And by the wanting she fired in him that he’d worked hard to shove down. Until the kiss.
He put his hands to her shoulders. “It’s not about fault.”
Her pupils dilated, and he felt her stiffen under his hands. He dropped his hands to his sides and stepped back, hoping that the gesture would make her feel safer, less trapped.
“I invited you; you’re my guest, my responsibility. I should’ve thought this trip out better. I’m truly sorry.”
He was sorry he’d invited her for an outing that was out of her league. But was he really sorry about the kiss? He’d be lying if he told himself he was. And lying if he didn’t admit he wanted to kiss her again. The gentlemanly side of him, the side of him that had sisters and knew he wouldn’t want them to be afraid, to be challenged beyond their boundaries, fought to keep his desire in check.
She tugged the jacket around her shoulders. “It may not be about fault, but it’s my stubbornness that kept me from saying anything.”
It didn’t look like stubbornness to him. He detected fear. And he felt bad for his part in conjuring such an awful emotion.
She sat down on the ground and tugged off a shoe, peeling back her sock with a grimace.
He winced when he saw the blisters. “I have moleskin,” he said.
She looked up at him like he’d said he had eye of newt.
“Moleskin. It’s for blisters.” He fumbled the package out of the front pocket of his pack, moving swiftly, as if a minute more would make a difference.
She tugged off her other shoe. “I hope you have a lot of it.”
He did. Coco had stuck an extra packet of the soft padding into his pack at the last minute. She knew something of women and shoes, that sassy sister of his. He’d have to thank her. But for now he needed to help Tasha patch up her feet. It wasn’t like he could carry her down the mountain. He checked his cellphone. No signal. They were halfway up the highest peak in three counties and there weren’t any cell towers nearby? Just great. Since they couldn’t hail a ranger, his patch job would have to do.
She winced again as she peeled off her other sock. “If this is moderately strenuous, I think it’ll be a long time before I’m ready to try strenuous.”
He heard bravado returning to her voice. And spunk. Her confounding combination of toughness and tenderness reached inside him and squeezed at his heart. Courage was a trait he admired in anyone, but he especially liked it in a woman. He’d done all he could to encourage the trait in his sisters. But there was nothing sisterly about the desire Tasha’s bravado sparked in him.
With unsteady hands, he trimmed off pieces of the sticky felt and smoothed them over the reddening blisters. Unable to resist, he ran his thumb along the smooth curve of her instep and felt her shudder under his touch. He’d never wanted a woman more than he wanted her.
He slipped her sock over the toes of her foot and then snugged it up to her ankle. She drew her foot away.
“I can put my other sock on,” she said.
Her voice trembled as if it were reading the pulsing in his body. He lifted her shoe and slid it onto her foot. But again, she reached to stop him before he could help her with the other one. Her fingers brushed his. Their gazes met. She scooted up to her knees. His pulse leaped when she reached her hands to his face. Her lips parted under his. In the slide of tongues and lips, want slammed hard, breaking through the dam that had held his restraint in place.
On a mission of their own, his hands slid behind her head, his fingers pressing her tighter against him, sending pleasure coursing deep.
Barely aware of her hands roving the muscles of his back, he pressed her to the ground, cradling her. Not breaking their kiss, he leaned onto his elbow and traced his fingers along the warm curve of her breast. Her mew of pleasure shocked through him. But instinct fired and had him drawing back.
“No, Tasha. Not like this.” He stroked where color rose in her cheek. He hadn’t meant to embarrass her. “I want to court you properly. To make up for whomever or whatever has frightened you. You deserve so much more than, than this. Will you trust me? For one more date?”
She nodded, and he wanted to leap with joy.
“But for now”—he gestured to the roiling clouds darkening the sky to the north—“we’d better get off this mountain before that storm breaks.”
She didn’t let him help her don her other shoe. Good thing, as he was inches from running out of leash. One touch, one word, and he’d give in to the raging hunger screaming in him.
As they made their way back to the parking lot, it wasn’t the storm on the mountains that had him fighting for his bearings. He had a tough road to navigate if he wanted to win Tasha.
Chapter Eight
WE’RE SURE GOING TO MISS YOU AFTER you move out next week,” Mary said to Tyler.
Tyler was up to his elbows in cookie dough. Natasha had to laugh. He’d eaten twice as much dough as had gone onto the baking sheets. But all morning he’d ordered the gathered women with the confidence of a field marshal.
“I’ll be back to visit.” He stirred the dough so hard the wooden spoon bowed. “Mark is my throwing buddy.”
Natasha and Tyler had been approved for the low-income housing. She couldn’t believe it had happened so fast. Mary had gone to bat for her and the planets had aligned. One of the families on the wait list had moved out of state. It was all too good to be true.
“Don’t work that dough too hard, Tyler,” Debra said. “You’ll end up with tough cookies.”
Mary laughed. “Plenty of tough cookies in this room.” Tyler didn’t get the joke.
Debra had once owned her own bakery and café. Before her divorce. Before her sorry excuse of a husband had lit the place on fire in a drunken rage. She’d had it rougher than Natasha, but she always had a good word
and a sense of humor.
“Mr. Henderson said that if we sell out, we’ll make enough to win the prize.”
“It’s a challenge grant, Tyler. The Giants will fund the new bleachers and scoreboard if you boys raise one thousand dollars on your own,” Natasha reminded him.
“An electric scoreboard. With a video screen. We could have replays.”
“Most boys sell popcorn,” Debra said.
“I think these boys figured out early that moms making cookies and baked goods was an irresistible marketing ploy.” Mary shook her spoon at Tyler. “And free labor. We have an entrepreneur on our hands.”
“What’s an entrepreneur?” Tyler asked between licks at the bowl of butter and sugar Debra had whipped up.
“A boy who cajoles three grown women into making forty dozen cookies in one day to win him an electric scoreboard,” Mary said.
Tyler wrinkled his nose. “Brandon got his mom to agree to fifty dozen.”
“Brandon Exeter?” Mary raised a brow.
Tyler nodded. “He’s our pitcher.”
“This I have to see. I doubt Monica Exeter has ever baked a cookie in her life.” Mary snorted.
Natasha hadn’t met any of the moms from Tyler’s school, and she was dreading the bake sale. She was still uncomfortable with the well-dressed, sophisticated women she’d encountered at his new school. But Tyler’s enthusiasm was heartwarming. And he was one of the two boys chosen to lead the project, so she could endure. She fervently hoped the boys hit their goal. And that Monica did know how to bake.
She stirred oatmeal into the bowl of batter and her thoughts wandered back to Adrian.
How could she feel such affection for him after such a short time?
The answer always rose insistent and clear—Adrian was a kind man. Thoughtful. An old-fashioned gentleman in a wildly modern world. And sexy. She could still feel the branding of his lips, feel the way her whole body wanted to leap into his arms and be carried away into a land of pleasure. Maybe she was marked for life.
