by Val Daniels
"So explain about John and the jewelry," she urged.
"John had an amazing amount of patience with me. He always asked if I had my homework done before I could stay and watch him work. At first, I thought he was trying to get rid of me. It took me a while to figure out that he wasn't." He ran his finger idly around the edge of his glass. "He insisted on seeing my report card at the end of every term. Then, if I'd done well, I got to 'help' him make something. Usually a ring with a stone setting since that was the easiest. As I got better, he'd let me do my own. It took him longer to face the fact that I'd never be an artist than it did me."
His voice changed and he was back with her again. He gave her a sheepish grin, "Oh, I loved what he created, so I tried, but I got more pleasure from digging around in his vast stock and sorting it out. I even made little wooden cases in Dad's workshop for all of it. When I'd ask what he was going to do with his forty-odd years' collection, he'd growl and say, 'It's a hobby, boy. I guess I'll let someone else worry about throwing them away when I'm gone.'"
Matt's gravelly rendition gave her an image of the man.
"I was about fifteen when I asked if I could sell some of it for him. He and his wife had only been married a couple of years when she died. With his biggest admirer in her grave, he'd just make things and set them aside. He didn't think I'd have any luck, but agreed to let me try, and I began—"
The timer went off, and Matt looked startled, then relieved. He led the way back to the kitchen and asked her to set the table. "I'll finish getting this ready," he said, finding the blue-checked mitt and opening the oven door. Within five minutes, they were seated.
"It looks all right," Jillian said skeptically.
"It smells so good." Matt breathed the fruity aroma deeply.
Jillian took a bite. "It's nice," she agreed, pleasantly surprised, but anxious to get back on the subject. "So you started selling John's pieces?"
"That's about it."
"No," she protested. "You were just beginning to explain how that turned into a business. John sounds…" Like the answer to a lonely young boy's prayers, she said silently. "Wonderful," she finished aloud.
Matt laughed. "He'd roll over in his grave. He thought he kept his reputation intact right up until he died six years ago." His sigh was a mixture of fond memories and melancholy. "He probably did, except with a few of us."
Jillian wanted to cover his hand with hers. She wished she could comfort him as he had comforted her earlier this afternoon. But she wasn't sure he'd appreciate it. "You cared a great deal for him," she whispered.
"I did."
"How did selling his jewelry go?" she asked after a moment.
"Have you ever considered becoming a newspaper reporter?" he teased. "You'd be great at digging up everyone's dirt."
She rubbed her hands together. "There's dirt coming?"
"Yeah." He leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "The local jeweler asked me nicely to quit and I figured I must be cutting into his business."
"You weren't," she replied with mock horror.
"I was," he admitted, eyes twinkling. "So I offered him first chance at everything I sold."
He spoke so quietly that Jillian had to inch closer to catch his words.
"John must have had a lot to sell after forty years. Let me guess," Jillian whispered in return. "You double-crossed John, kept all the money and started buying stores."
"He split the profits with me." Matt pushed back in his chair as if the game had suddenly grown old. "We were partners."
Jillian started to interrupt with a question and he rushed on as if in a hurry to finish. "I saved my share and bought parts for one of his old cars and began fixing that up."
"Since I couldn't sell to anyone locally except old Mr. Hatfield, once I had the car running, I drove to other towns and sold to jewelers there. Of course, I'd raised the prices by then. Mr. Hatfield charged his customers the earth, or so I thought at the time, but John's designs sold out regularly."
Matt tipped his chair back on two legs and spread his hands in a "that's that" gesture.
Jillian shook her head exasperatedly. "That still doesn't tell me how you ended up with seven jewelry stores."
He grinned at her thoughtfully. "I guess it doesn't, does it?"
"No."
He looked like a clam slowly closing up.
"I'll take the short version if you insist," she said hastily, but couldn't resist adding, "It's not like we've got anything better to do."
He looked as though he wanted to disagree, then shrugged. "I started representing several more craftsmen. Then I expanded to selling in four states. I used the money to pay my way through college, got a degree in retail management, and watched for an opportunity to buy a store. The first one was in Emporia. I gradually bought other stores." He stood up from the table. "The last two were planned expansions. I built the ones in Wichita and Colorado Springs." He stopped talking abruptly.
"Where do you live?" She sensed his growing impatience but was reluctant to let him break off without revealing any present history. "How do you manage so many stores when they're all scattered around like that?"
"Sometimes it gets a little complicated." He answered the last question noncommittally, and ignored the first. "Shall we clean up this mess?"
She began stacking dishes. "How did your father react to your little business? What happened to it after he died?"
He held up a hand when she would have continued. "What is this? Twenty questions? Didn't anyone ever tell you what happened to the cat? If you ever need a career other than little miss homemaker or the politician's socially correct little assistant, you could become a private detective or newspaper reporter extraordinaire." He took the dishrag out of her hand and gave her the towel. "Your turn to dry," he instructed, running the water. "I always hated that job. I think parents give it to kids because they hate it, too."
That's all you're going to get, Jillian, his expression said. For now, she almost added aloud. When the dishes were finished and put away, Matt folded the towel.
"It's early yet." She looked at her watch. The dim lantern light made it seem later. "Much too early for bed," she tacked on.
"Depends on what you're going to do there." Suddenly, all the earlier tension was back.
Her color deepened. "What would you like to do?"
"Bad question," he answered, his eyes steady on her lips.
"I mean right now."
"It's still a bad question." He grinned and lowered his eyes to take in her gentle curves as she looked nervously away.
"You must have planned something for this week. What were you going to do here all by yourself?"
"Hunt, watch a little TV, read, catch up on some paperwork. With the year end right around the corner, I have plenty of that, and I've got some fair-sized decisions to make." His bold eyes rested on her neckline and a sultry heat seemed to envelop her.
She moved away, then realized he was intentionally making her self-conscious to distract her from further interrogation.
"What did you and Harrison have planned?" he asked innocently. Her face turned Santa-suit red. "Besides that."
"I brought a couple of games." She gladly changed the subject. "Would you like to play Scrabble with me?"
"I guess we could."
"Unless you'd rather read or something," she added quickly. "I brought a couple of books with me." But I can't read them, she admitted to herself. The books had been picked specifically to stimulate a romantic mood. And she definitely didn't need stimulating.
"Or something," he muttered under his breath. "You get it set up and ready. I'll bring in a little more wood for the night."
"My turn first?" he asked, moments later, before even taking off his coat. He stood behind his chair, looking down at the tiles on his letter rack, pulling off his gloves.
"I guess so," she agreed, looking at the conglomeration of O-R-L-D-P-V-G on her rack. If he already had a word, he was more than welcome to st
art. Maybe she'd have something to build on.
He put down his letters, unbuttoned and shed his coat, turning to hang it on one of the hooks by the door.
S-E-X, his word said in blinking letters, until Jillian realized it was her eyelids doing the blinking. Her eyes flew to his face as he sat down. He shrugged. "You have to use letters like X as quickly as you can or you're stuck with them at the end of the game. Besides, I can spell it. Spelling isn't one of my strong suits."
She added L-O-V to his E.
He laughed. "Oh, yes, we can't have one without the other, can we?"
She caught herself smiling, but said warily, "I'm not sure we should play this."
He shook his head. "You just want to back out because I'm winning."
"After one word?"
"Ten to seven. Who's keeping score, anyway? Shall I get you a pencil and a piece of paper?"
Jillian good-naturedly accepted his teasing, accusing him from time to time of making up or misspelling his words. "Did you bring a dictionary?" he asked when she contested the final score, taking off sixteen points for a word she was sure was wrong. "I know that isn't a word," she insisted, removing ARG from the board. The R had changed her word, SPA, to SPAR and the G was on a triple word space.
"Unless you can prove it's not, put it back." His hazel eyes glinted, inviting her to defy him. He fingered the corner of his mustache. "You're just a poor loser, Jake."
"Can you prove it is a word? What does it mean?" Her voice sounded airy. She couldn't refrain from watching his mouth and it made her breathless.
"An arg is a type of metal fastener used in putting together mechanical components," he said smoothly.
"Okay," she granted reluctantly, tearing her eyes from his face and re-adding his score. "You win. Would you like to play again?"
Shaking his head, he went into the bedroom and came back with a book. "I think I'll read."
"I guess I'll find my book," she finally said, more to herself than to him. He didn't act as though he'd heard, anyway.
The words in her book didn't make any sense, and Jillian turned pages mindlessly. The figure sitting in the chair by the flickering fire held her concentration. The glow spread an aura around him that made him seem magical, mystical. She sat across the room from him, watching him read, watching his motionless body. His book hid his face now. It seemed like a wall.
She gently laid down her novel, brooding over the space between them.
"Wouldn't you like to play another game?" she asked hopefully.
"No. I'd like to read. I didn't come here to entertain you, Jillian," he added quickly. His soft tone did nothing to soothe the tension growing inside her.
"How about something different? I've got other games besides Scrabble."
In one smooth move, he'd laid down his book and was standing beside her. His hand stroked her face. "The only thing I'd like to do with you right now is make love." His eyes bored deep into hers, as if he were seeking her soul. His voice became husky. "Is that how you'd like me to entertain you? I assure you, it would be very pleasant."
She swallowed.
His lips started a slow descent toward hers. And heaven help her, she wanted him to kiss her, to hold her, to stop this indefinable aching. Yet she pulled away, easing her face from his grip.
"I take it that's a 'no'," he said blandly, then turned to pick up his book. "If I were you, I wouldn't push it, Jillian. You may not want the kind of attention you get from me if I concentrate on you."
Hardly conscious of what she was doing, she followed him across the room and knelt beside his chair. She ignored the warning bell sounding in the dim recesses of her mind because, suddenly, there was nothing in the world more important than having his undivided attention. Nothing. "Okay, Matt," she agreed breathlessly.
His eyes left the book and studied her intently. "No strings attached?" He echoed the phrase she'd used— was it only this morning—before accepting his gift.
"What do you mean?" she stammered.
"I mean," he spoke slowly, "if we make love, it will change nothing."
"Of course, it would change things," Jillian protested.
"Oh, yes, it would change the nature of our stay here. And it will change what happens when the boyfriend arrives. But when it's time to go back to the real world, this week will be just a very pleasant memory for me. Will you feel the same way?"
What is he asking? Her brows knitted tightly. "I'm not sure I understand." She couldn't take her eyes from his lips. It was so hard to think with her heart pounding crazily in her ears.
"If Harrison gets here, will you be able to pretend nothing happened between us?" He paused, waiting for her to answer. When she didn't, he carried on relentlessly. "If he breaks your engagement, won't you expect me to be a gentleman and step in for him?"
He reached out to smooth the lines between her brows with a fingertip. "I told you, I'm not the marrying kind. I'd hate to see you mess up whatever you have with Harrison for a roll with me, because that's all it would be. Much as I like you, Jake, I don't intend to fall into the kind of trap you are unknowingly—and I do think it's unknowingly—setting. Lord, what a trap." He swept a hand through his hair and sighed. "Shall I put the book down?"
If he makes love to me, nothing will ever be the same, Jillian admitted to herself. "I… You…" She gulped, taking on a hot flush that threatened to burn her to a cinder. "I know you're right," she said finally, standing up and backing away, "but I wish… I wish you weren't."
CHAPTER FIVE
"I'm nuts," Jillian muttered as she stumbled through the bedroom and into the bathroom. Her cheeks burned, despite the room's icy temperature, and she laid the back of her hand across her forehead to see if she had a temperature.
She did. She definitely had a temperature. But she knew that it wasn't caused by anything other than the man in the room out there and her own mortifying behavior. Whatever had possessed her?
She shivered and began peeling off the velvety blue jumpsuit. Its soft texture intensified the screaming of her nerve endings as it slid to the floor. She jerked on the sweat suit she'd decided to sleep in, hoping the coarser fabric and even rougher treatment would put an end to the tingling of her sensitized skin. How could she have behaved so shamelessly?
Jillian's eyes were drawn to the pale but flushed face in the mirror. In the dim candlelight, the blue eyes looked confused and luminescent. The heart-shaped mouth trembled. Her blond mop of hair fluffed out around her face in wild disarray. She looked like one of those women in perfume commercials who were preparing for a big seduction scene. Lord, what he must think of me! She turned away from her reflection.
She didn't think much of herself, either. What did she think she was doing? Why, a couple of days ago she was worrying about being frigid! Now, twenty-four hours with a heartbreaker and she was throwing herself practically at his feet, begging him to make love to her. He probably imagines I've been carrying on with all and sundry all my life!
And she'd totally forgotten about Harrison. She gulped back a sob and closed her eyes, refusing to give in to tears. She could face making a fool of herself, but she wasn't sure she'd be able to face Harrison. Time and again, she'd avoided Harrison's advances, yet just now, she'd made one of her own—to someone else.
"Jillian?"
She jumped at the sound of Matt's voice, trying to pull herself together and respond naturally. Her own voice wouldn't come.
"Are you all right?"
"Fine. Just fine," she answered much too brightly.
She heard him press against the closed door and instinctively leaned away, as if she'd felt his weight.
"You're sure?" He sounded concerned.
"I'm just finishing my nightly rituals." There. That was the right touch of casual nonchalance. She hoped it allayed his worry.
"Okay," he said finally. She heard hesitant-sounding footsteps recede.
Well, she'd better start preparing for sleep, she supposed—she couldn't hide in the bathr
oom forever.
Sleep? How could she sleep? If an uneasy conscience didn't keep her awake, worry would. What was wrong with her? She gave her fine flyaway hair an extra hundred strokes. Her teeth wouldn't stop chattering. She clenched them. The chill finally forced her to return to the warmth of the living room.
The armload of bedding she clutched couldn't shield her from Matt's steady gaze. She heard him put down his book, and get to his feet, so she wasn't surprised when he peeled away the layers of blankets masking her face. He studied her, assessing the damage, she assumed, but she was careful to avoid his eyes. Wordlessly, they pulled out and made the bed.
As she crawled under the covers, Matt resettled in the chair and picked up his book.
He'd taken off his sweater and rolled up his shirtsleeves past his elbows. The golden hair on his strong forearms shimmered in the firelight.
"Go to sleep, Jillian." She jumped at his voice, which carried a hint of warning. She closed her eyes and tried. Anything less than total unconsciousness just wouldn't do.
Much later an unfamiliar heaviness woke her. Matt was not only beside her in the bed, he had somehow surrounded her. She tingled, tensed and then allowed herself to relax against his chest. She mentally mapped their positions.
He'd fitted himself against her like a piece of an interlocking puzzle. Her neck rested on his arm and his hand curled around hers. His knees were bent into hers.
Experimentally, she shifted her top knee. His leg followed as if magnetized. His other arm encircled her shoulders and his hand dangled lightly against her breasts.
She ought to move, but his warm steady breathing fanned her neck comfortably. Besides, what would happen if she woke him? She couldn't count on his self-restraint forever, and she couldn't trust herself to be levelheaded either—last evening certainly proved that.
Since yesterday, she'd been suppressing wild imaginings of him as her tutor in the art of love. She didn't dare give those ideas the chance of becoming reality.
