Rachel turned as white as stripped pine.
Remembering her efforts the day they all moved in, the framed flowers over her daughter's bed, Sean felt a surge of protective anger. "Look, your mom has done her damnedest to make a home for you. You should show her the respect she deserves."
"I don't have to listen to you. You're not my father."
"Thank God for that."
"This is not helpful," Rachel said tightly. "Lindsey, we're leaving. Now."
"I won't."
Sean blew an exasperated breath. He didn't need this. But then, neither did her mother. "You've got your marching orders. You want me to carry you out of here?"
"You wouldn't."
It was a challenge. And the MacNeills never backed down from a challenge, even when the would-be opponent was four-foot-eight and wore pink barrettes. "Try me, dollface."
Rachel's friend chuckled. Off to one side with the four boys, her husband watched as the argument got booted from one player to another. Like a damn soccer match. And Rachel was frowning at Sean like he'd just stolen the ball.
But Lindsey, bless her obstinate little heart, wasn't sure he wouldn't carry through on his threat. Rather than risk humiliation in front of her new pal, she shot him a dark look and flounced off with one of those peculiarly feminine noises he usually found kind of cute. Yeah, yeah, you hate me, he thought.
Rachel visibly pulled it together. "Chris, time to go. Dee, thanks."
"Anytime. I'll call you about the girls."
"I'll walk you to your car," Sean said. Rachel's look was harder to read than her daughter's, but it sure didn't give him a warm, fuzzy feeling inside. "No, thanks. You've done enough already."
"I'll walk you to your car," he repeated. He wasn't leaving her to encounter Friendly Frankie in the parking lot.
She looked from Lindsey's stiff back to her friend's amused face before she gave in. "Fine." Handing him the three-foot-tall spotted dog, she stalked after her daughter.
"Nice to meet you," Sean told the other family.
The woman's dark eyes brightened with appreciation. "Oh, honey, it's been a pleasure."
He lengthened his stride to go after Rachel. He'd never had so much trouble keeping up with a woman. Chris was practically trotting in her wake.
"Take it easy," he said when he reached her side.
"Sorry." She didn't sound sorry. But she shortened her steps.
"Not 'slow down.' I meant, loosen up."
"Easy for you to say."
He wouldn't feel miffed. Hell, she was right. Lindsey wasn't his kid. "You shouldn't get so clutched up about things you can't control."
"That's the problem. There are too many things I can't control right now."
He didn't think they were just talking about Lindsey anymore. "Like your buddy from the bandstand?"
She didn't answer. They walked through a playing field full of cars, the long grass flattened by fair traffic. Behind them, brassy music carried from the Ferris wheel. A chorus of cicadas rose raggedly from the trees.
"Rachel." He didn't know what to say to her. In the MacNeill family, Patrick was the hero, Con the problem solver. Sean was simply "good with his hands." And he didn't fool himself that a rubdown was what Rachel needed now. "What can I do?"
"Nothing." She inhaled sharply. Forced a smile. "There's nothing anyone can do. Don't worry about it."
Good advice. But as Sean watched Rachel unlock her mother's car and load her cranky children into the back seat, he wasn't at all sure he was going to follow it.
* * *
Rachel outran her demons, her rubber soles striking the black road in even rhythm. At five-thirty in the morning after a holiday weekend, porch lights were doused. Cars sat idle in dark driveways. Only the birds tuning in the trees offered counterpoint to the chorus in her head.
It's your family you've got to be concerned about.
A thousand dollars extra. A month. Until the loan's paid off.
And Sean's voice, earnest and concerned. What can I do?
Nothing.
There's nothing anyone can do.
She pushed herself up the hill, heart pounding. Her breath labored. She counted, timing each quick inhale and slow exhale against her thumping feet. She ran through exhaustion and fear. She ran alone, and the voices kept pace.
By the time she reached the bottom of her mother's driveway, sweat soaked her running bra and the waistband of her shorts. Her legs shook. She bent double, blowing bard.
She had to go in, she reminded herself. She had to face her children and her students, her mother's questions and Bilotti's threats. There was no going back on the road her marriage had forced her along. She could only go forward, one hard step at a time.
Slowly, she straightened, supporting herself with her hands on her thighs. And saw Sean, watching from the top of the drive.
He wore rumpled jeans low on lean hips and an earring. Nothing else. Not even shoes. His broad chest was lightly furred with hair that arrowed down his abdomen. His feet were bare. Judging from his unshaven jaw and finger-combed hair, he hadn't been up that long. But he was drinking. At least, he cradled a tall plastic tumbler in one hand as he watched her.
He started down the driveway, his big bare feet padding carefully over the graveL She continued to suck in air, willing her heart to slow.
"Here." He offered the full cup.
She hesitated. She was thirsty, but…
"Orange juice. Straight."
"Thank you."
The liquid was cold on her teeth and sweet on her tongue and wet at the back of her throat. She turned the cup to read the lettering on the side. "'Nothing is fool-proof to a fool with the right tools.'" She almost smiled as she handed it back.
"There it is," he said with satisfaction. "You run every morning?"
She wiped her mouth with the heel of her palm. She wished she had more clothes on. She wished he did. "Only when I can't sleep."
"Maybe I should try it."
She felt a pang of sympathy. Of guilt. "Are you having problems sleeping? Is it the couch? Because—"
He shook his head. "It's not the couch, Rachel. It's you."
She felt herself gaping and snapped her mouth shut fast enough to get whiplash. He turned casually away, as if he hadn't said anything out of the ordinary. And maybe he hadn't. Maybe he was just used to delivering come-on lines.
"Coffee's inside," he remarked over his shoulder. "Want a cup?"
Her run had cleared her head of nightmares. But she was tempted by the respite he offered, quiet words and controlled attraction, before she trudged to the house and resumed her "mommy" mantle.
"Coffee would be good."
"You haven't tried my coffee yet. I'm not making any promises."
She didn't want promises. "I'll take my chances," she said.
He'd done more work in the garage, she saw. Secreted away behind the unfinished furniture, in the back corner with her green velvet couch, he'd set up a hot plate and minifridge. An iron lamp glowed from one of his own tables, and a braided rug warmed the concrete floor. She saw books—with a start she recognized Steinbeck's King Arthur and Twain's Huck Finn along with the latest Dick Francis mystery—and a child's drawing stuck with a magnet to the fridge.
"This is … cozy," she said.
"You were expecting beer cans and racing magazines?"
"Am I that predictable?" she asked ruefully.
He shrugged. "Maybe you just think I am." He handed her a maroon mug without a slogan on its side. "I've done the slob bachelor thing. It's not very comfortable after a while."
She sipped the hot coffee with appreciation. "Well, your mother obviously raised you right."
"Oh, yeah. Dad was a marine. Mom was a trauma nurse. He ran a tight ship, and she was into clean hands and hospital corners." He grinned. "Plus, my brothers pounded on me if I didn't do my share."
The story explained his readiness to draft her children when there was work to be done.
"La
st night, with Lindsey…" She hesitated. "I'm sorry if I overreacted. I know you were trying to help."
He poured his own coffee and sat on the rug beside the sofa. Even slouching, his head came above her knees. She fought the temptation to reach out, to test the silk of his hair with her fingers. "'S okay. You've got your hands full with that one, though, don't you?"
Rachel stiffened in her daughter's defense. "Lindsey's going through a very difficult time right now."
He raised an eyebrow. "So is her brother. Hell, so are you."
"At her age, she's having more trouble adjusting to a new school. New friends. New everything. And she hasn't really been herself since … since Doug died."
He sat up straighter, dark brows drawing together. "She didn't find him, did she?"
"No." Rachel stared into the depths of her mug, trying not to see. Trying not to remember Doug's gray, distended face lolling against the headrest of the driver's seat as she coughed and cried and searched frantically for the keys. "No. I did."
He swore softly. "I'm sorry."
"Thank you." She clutched her coffee tighter, for warmth.
"In the house?"
"No." She was grateful for that, at least. "He rigged a hose from the exhaust pipe… Doug was a car dealer."
He nodded, to show he knew or to encourage her to continue. She didn't need encouragement. After months of silence, her stifled feelings bubbled out like foam from a can of soda.
"I remember feeling surprised because it was a brand-new Towncar, and Doug was always so careful of things like the upholstery… So stupid. Doug was dead, and I was worried about getting the damn car cleaned."
"Shock," Sean said briefly and sympathetically. "It takes people that way sometimes."
She shuddered. "I'm not a warm person, you know. Not like my mother. Undemonstrative. That's what Doug said."
"I don't think you're cold."
She fixed him with a straight look. "That's sex."
"No. It's the way you are with your kids, your mother. You're a nice woman, Rachel."
His assessment warmed her more than the coffee between her hands. He was being too kind. No matter how seductive she found his comfort, no matter how tempting his understanding, she couldn't let him get the wrong idea about where this relationship was headed. She couldn't let herself get ideas.
"Oh, and you're the expert on women."
"I've known a few."
"But never married."
"No."
"Why not?" she challenged him.
"I was ready to get married once," he said, surprising her. "I was all of eighteen and ready to be a big man, like my daddy." He took a sip of coffee, cradling the mug in one hand. "Like my brothers."
"I'm sorry." The bitterness in his voice sent her mind whirling through the possibilities. She couldn't imagine any teenage girl turning down Sean MacNeill. "Did she … die?"
He let out a crack of laughter. "Die? God, no."
Her cheeks burned at her mistake. She ducked her head. "I'm sorry, I just thought…"
His eyes were alight with tenderness and amusement. "Thanks. But it wasn't anything like that."
"Then she wasn't ready to get married."
The amusement died. He looked away. "No, she was ready. Just not to me."
"I'm so sorry."
He shrugged. "Yeah, well, it works out that way sometimes. I hear she's happy."
"I think she was stupid."
"Right." His wave encompassed the dim garage. "Look at all she gave up."
"You're very talented."
"I'm very unemployed."
Hadn't she cautioned herself about that very thing? And yet she didn't like hearing him run himself down. "What about your furniture?"
"What about it?"
"Well, you make it. Do you sell it?"
"Some." When she merely waited, he shrugged and added, "There's a guy on the craft show circuit who takes a couple pieces from me. A shop in Boone that sells to tourists."
"How much do they sell?"
"As much as I give them, I guess."
"Have they asked for more?"
He rounded his shoulders, plainly uncomfortable with the shift of the conversation. "Sometimes. Commissions."
She studied this new view of him. "You build custom furniture."
"When I have time."
"Well, you should make time." She sat up, pleased to have a new direction for her thoughts, heartened now that she was encouraging someone else. "You could start your own business."
"It's a hobby."
"It's more than that. You could really make something of it."
He turned his head. His lips curved, but his brown eyes were hard and shrewd. "I'm not one of your students, Rachel. And I won't be one of your projects."
She flushed. "Really? You seem eager enough to make me one of yours."
"One of my what?" His voice had a dangerous edge.
"One of those women you care about as individuals."
"You're too smart to play victim, Rachel. Face it, you didn't come in here to talk about furniture."
Her heart began to slam inside her chest. "I came in for coffee."
"Maybe." He glided to his knees, facing her as she sat on the green velvet couch, his bare chest brushing her thigh. "Or maybe you came in for this."
He leaned forward. His mouth covered hers warmly, surely, before she had a chance to react. Before she could decide how she wanted to react. He tasted like coffee and smelled like sleep, and his skin was hot. Her body tightened. Her eyelids dragged shut as he took the kiss deeper, and then they popped open again.
"No," she said.
His lips cruised up her cheek. He kissed her temple. His tenderness was heartbreakingly sweet and mind-bendingly seductive, but she figured she was on to him now.
"I mean it. If you don't want to talk about it, I understand, but don't distract me with sex."
Sean pulled back. "What are you talking about?" Her dark eyes were earnest. "As soon as I started to discuss your work, you changed the subject."
He hadn't done that. Sean frowned. At least, he hadn't been aware of doing that. "I did not change the subject."
She flapped away his objection. "Made a pass, then. Same thing."
He was offended at having his lovemaking waved off as a red herring. "The hell it is."
"It's all right," she assured him sincerely. "I understand if you're not ready."
"Beautiful, I am more than ready."
She gave him that schoolteacher look, the one that made him want to kiss her until her eyes crossed. "For sex. But not to talk about something that's obviously important to you."
He stood. She wanted to share? Fine. "So, let's talk. You go first."
Her gaze fell. "I don't know what you mean."
He admired her nerve, but she was a crummy liar. "Who's Frank, Rachel?"
* * *
Chapter 8
«^»
Rachel's chest caved. She'd prodded Sean to share his hopes and plans with her. She'd needled him to see her as something other than the latest in a string of sexual projects. But now that he'd turned the questioning back on her, she couldn't talk to him.
She closed her eyes in despair. "Oh, God."
"What? What is it?" His voice was deep, concerned. She loved his voice. It sounded more reliable than he looked.
Here was her chance to stumble off the tight little circle of fear and isolation she'd been spinning in like a rat in a wheel since Doug died. And she couldn't do it. Because however important Sean might become, the children came first.
You gonna get other people involved, somebody's gonna get hurt.
Her fingers slid down, tugging at her cheeks, leaving them drawn and old-looking. "You were right," she said. "Maybe talking isn't such a good idea."
He studied her a moment, bare-chested, thumbs hitched in his belt loops. Two sharp lines dug between his brows. But he asked her lightly, "Does that mean we can have sex now?"
She almost cr
ied. She laughed instead, and some of the worry left his eyes.
"Thank you for your very nice offer," she said. "But—"
"Sounds like no to me."
"I'm concerned about the children, Lindsey especially." That much, at least, wasn't a lie. "I can't do anything that might hurt them."
"Is it just the kids?"
"No. It's everything. I'm muddled enough right now. Sex would confuse things even more."
"We could keep it simple. You. Me. A mattress…" It was so much less than she wanted. It was more than she could let herself have. She shook her head. "I don't think I could. Keep it simple, I mean."
He inhaled sharply. She watched his chest expand and his muscled stomach contract, and tightened her hands in her lap to keep from touching him.
"I'm supposed to let you go after that?"
She didn't answer.
His breath sighed out. "Yeah. I'm supposed to let you go."
He bent, and his warm hands enclosed her clenched ones as he pulled her to her feet.
"You know where to find me if you change your mind. The offer stays open." He brushed one knuckle down her cheek. The casual tenderness of the gesture almost made her weep. "Both offers, if you want to talk."
She managed to nod. "I'll think about it," she said.
Not that it was a good idea, but he was making it real hard for her to do anything else.
* * *
Patrick slammed the tailgate shut, patting the red metal absently, the way he would have patted his plane or his dog. "Got everything?"
"For this trip," Sean said. He came around the back of the truck and stuck out his hand. "Thanks."
"No problem."
They stood in the driveway as eight-year-old Jack retrieved his basketball from the shadow of the bam and drove for the lowered hoop. Sean watched his nephew score in the final seconds of the game for an imaginary stadium of fans.
"Nice shot."
"Yeah." Patrick frowned. "You know, bro, you can still store wood here. Tools, too, if you need to."
"No. You'll need the room for another bicycle soon. The soccer goal. The batting cage. The—"
Patrick raised both hands in uncharacteristic surrender. "All right, all right. Don't remind me."
Sean grinned. "Truth is, I'm outgrowing my space as fast as you're outgrowing yours."
THE TEMPTATION OF SEAN MCNEILL Page 9
