Amanda (33 page)

She wanted to be with him because he made everything else seem unimportant—and she badly needed to forget, if only for a little while, all the questions and worries crowding her mind.

Since Walker had already announced his intentions to Jesse, they didn’t bother to tell anyone else that Amanda would be spending the night at King High. As soon as she came downstairs they simply walked out the front door.

It was late afternoon, and hot, so the wooded path offered at least shade from the brilliant June sun. They
walked slowly, lazily, not talking very much. When they crossed over the footbridge, Amanda glanced at the water warily, but there was no flash of an elusive memory, nothing to disturb her.

King High in the sunlight was every bit as gracious and welcoming as it had been in the moonlight, and Amanda felt the same sense of having found a peaceful place. She felt it even more strongly when they went in the front doors, and she stood in the cool quiet of the house, looking around her.

Unlike Jesse, Walker clearly did care for antiques; they were all around, arranged beautifully in the spacious rooms Amanda could see from the foyer, and the gleam of old, well-polished wood added to the feeling of cool peace.

Walker led her to the right and into a parlor or sitting room, and said, “I’ll go get us something cold to drink, and then I’ll give you the grand tour. How does that sound?”

“Fine.”

“Good. Make yourself at home.”

Instead of sitting down, Amanda wandered around the big room for a few minutes, looking at books on the shelves and pictures on the walls. She ended up standing before the fireplace and gazing at a painting of a lovely dark-haired woman with warm green eyes. There was a look of irrepressible humor hovering around her smiling mouth, and the resemblance to Walker was very strong. His mother, obviously.

“A-man-
da
.”

The summons was high-pitched, eerily childlike, and swung her around in surprise. It took her a moment, but then she saw the perch standing at a nearby window and the large African gray parrot regarding her with bright eyes.

Amanda approached the bird slowly, various
thoughts flitting through her mind. In a soft voice, she said, “Has he talked to you about me, bird? Is that it?”

The parrot tilted his head to one side. “Amanda. Say hello.”

She smiled and reached out a cautious hand, stroking the bird’s glossy breast feathers. “Hello. What’s your name?”

“Bailey says hello,” the parrot responded brightly.

“Hello, Bailey.” She hesitated for a moment, still petting the parrot, and then, hearing a step outside the room, raised her voice slightly and said, “Say my name. Say Amanda.”

“Amanda. Pretty girl. Amanda.”

“That bird’s got more taste than I gave him credit for,” Walker remarked as he came into the room and to her side. He handed her a tall glass of iced tea, smiling. “He drives me crazy most of the time, with a comment for everything.”

“Hot today,” the parrot announced with excellent timing. “Storm tonight? Hello, Walker.”

“Hi, Bailey.” Walker’s voice was resigned. “No storm tonight. He hates storms,” he added in an aside to Amanda.

“Did you teach him to talk?” Amanda wondered.

Walker seemed to hesitate, then shook his head. “No, he’s older than I am. Mother raised him, and she was the one he picked up most of his vocabulary from. He learns fast, though. And he seems to be pretty good at remembering people even after meeting them only once.”

Amanda looked at Walker for a moment, sipping her tea, then smiled. “I like the way he says my name —accent on the last syllable.”

“Amanda,” Bailey said promptly. “Pretty girl. Come see me. I love you.”

Startled, Amanda laughed. “You feathered charmer, you.”

“he’s a born flirt,” Walker warned her with a smile.

She smiled in return, but all she said was, “You promised me the grand tour.”

“So I did. This way, ma’am …”

It was very late when Amanda woke up. She lay there for a few minutes, listening to the night noises, then very carefully eased from Walker’s bed. Sleeping deeply, he didn’t stir. Even though the room was a bit stuffy, they had ended up here rather than on the mattress on the gallery because it was a narrow mattress and Walker wanted more room than it provided.

She looked down at him, illuminated by the moonlight spilling into the room. Even in repose, his body was powerful, compelling. Without touching her, without even moving or being awake and aware of her, he made desire ignite deep in her belly, and Amanda had to force herself to turn away. She picked up their scattered clothing from the floor and tossed most of the things over a chair, then slipped into his white shirt. It smelled of him, a scent that was familiar to her now and yet still had the power to rouse hunger in her.

Amanda stood there, her head bent as she breathed in the spicy, musky scent of her lover. Finally, she fastened a couple of buttons and went to the French doors that opened onto the gallery. The doors stood open so that the bedroom could catch whatever breeze was forthcoming, but it was a hot, still night, and only the fans turning lazily out on the gallery stirred the air.

She walked out to the railing and stood there with
her hands on it, just looking around. Clouds, moving swiftly so high up where there was wind, hid the moon from time to time, casting King High into momentary darkness. Out here, the scents were cut grass and honeysuckle and, faintly, wild roses. Crickets and katydids filled the humid air with their harmony, now and then accompanied by a bullfrog and, once, by an owl.

I feel safe here.

How odd, she thought, that she should feel so at home here, so at peace, when Glory lay hardly more than a mile away. Then again, perhaps it wasn’t so odd. Her emotions while at Glory tended to be negative ones, and even without those stresses Amanda doubted she would have felt all that different; Glory
was
overwhelming, and though she could genuinely admire it, she was not comfortable there.

She gazed out on King High, listened to the peaceful night sounds, and could almost feel what was left of her tension drain away from her. Behind her, somewhere in Walker’s house, an old clock bonged the hour of two
A.M.
with sonorous precision. And it was in that moment, her body totally relaxed and her mind completely at peace, that Amanda felt herself again transported to another time.

There’s the clock … sneak past the clock … ooh, it’s after midnight, Mama won’t like it … the wind’s really blowing and—oh!—what lightning! But at least it isn’t raining yet, and maybe I can get there and back before it does. I want to see Gypsy and her baby, maybe give them that piece of my apple I saved from supper …

Mud squishing between my toes … jump the drainage ditch—boy, is it ever full! Must be raining cats and dogs up in the mountains … there’s the
barn—but why’s there a light inside? And that sound … that awful sound …

The rasping croak of a bullfrog brought Amanda back with a jolt. She blinked, staring around, conscious of her unsteady breathing, of her heart thudding wildly with a child’s abrupt panic.

It was several minutes before the sensations began to fade, and when they did, the memory did as well. Vanishing like smoke through her fingers …

She remembered the
actions
—though the surroundings had been hazy and for the most part unidentifiable. But she remembered looking at a clock. Going downstairs and through a door. Across a field. Jumping over a ditch filled with muddy water. But now it was as if she had watched someone else do those things; there were no emotions connected, no thoughts or sensations such as those she had felt so briefly.

Amanda tried to recapture the elusive memory. She made herself relax, blanked her mind. She gazed out on King High and waited—but in vain. If she was indeed on the verge of remembering why she was afraid of horses or something else important, it seemed that Helen was right in saying it wouldn’t be forced.

It would come at its own pace.

Dammit.

It was a long time later that Amanda became aware of a slight stirring behind her in the bedroom. She debated briefly, but in the end remained there by the railing and waited.

“Amanda?” His voice was quiet.

“Did I wake you? I’m sorry.”

He put his arms around her and drew her gently back against him. “Couldn’t you sleep?”

She leaned her head back against his shoulder. “I
came out here to listen to the night. It’s so alive, isn’t it? Yet so peaceful.”

Walker’s arms tightened around her. “If you were looking for peace,” he murmured, “you shouldn’t have come out here wearing nothing but my shirt.”

Amanda smiled, very aware of the hard arousal of his body. “No?”

“No.” His hand found several unfastened buttons, and slipped inside the shirt to touch her. “Definitely not. Come back to bed, Amanda.”

She felt her legs go weak, her breathing quicken, and said a bit helplessly, “How can you
do
that … so quickly? How can you make me feel this way?”

“What way?” His mouth feathered a touch beneath her ear, down her neck. He pulled aside the collar of the shirt she wore so that he could press his lips to her shoulder.

“This way … You know. You have to know.”

“Tell me.”

“You have to know,” she repeated, and then sucked in a breath when his hand closed over one of her breasts, a heat that owed nothing to the night flaring deep inside her. She wanted to turn and fling her arms around him, to press herself even closer and fit herself against him, but he was holding her still and she could only endure the shattering sensations.

“Look,” he whispered. “Watch what I’m doing.”

Amanda obeyed dazedly, looking down at herself to watch the wildly erotic sight of his hand moving inside the white shirt as he caressed her body. She felt his fingers tug at her nipple, roll it slowly back and forth, and the burning pleasure tore a shaken moan from her throat.

“Do you want me?” he asked her hoarsely.

“Yes.”

His teeth toyed with her earlobe gently, and his free
hand found its way down over her hip, underneath the shirt there, and slid to touch her lower belly. Soft skin was stroked very slowly, then his fingers moved lower and found silky curls, tugged delicately. He rubbed, barely touching her until her hips rolled pleadingly, then stroked firmly, pressed harder.

“Tell me you want me.”

“I want you. Walker …”

Amanda moaned again, trying and failing to catch her breath, to beg him not to torment her like this. She felt the most incredibly arousing sense of her own sexuality, an overwhelming awareness of the pleasure her body could experience. But, even more, what she felt was a hunger that went deeper than her bones, deeper than thought or reason, deeper even than instinct.

A hunger for him.

“Walker … please …”

Ending the torment abruptly, Walker groaned and lifted her into his arms. He carried her into his bedroom and lowered her to the middle of the big four-poster bed. Impatient as always with buttons, he merely ripped the shirt open to bare her to his intense gaze, and then lowered himself onto her.

Amanda cried out when he entered her, her legs closing around him strongly. The feelings were wild, sweeping over her with all the violence of a storm, and in the midst of that storm, tossed about and lashed by raw sensation and chaotic emotions she could no longer master, she heard herself cry out something else, releasing a captive truth because it had grown too vast to be held inside her.

Walker went still, his green eyes burning down at her, his face a moonlit primitive mask of hunger. No —more than hunger. A … craving. A brutal necessity. His breathing was harsh, labored, and his muscles quivered with strain.

“Say it again,” he ordered thickly.

She didn’t want to, didn’t want to give it to him like this, when she couldn’t think, but she was helpless to stop the now-whispered words.

“I love you.”

He was still a moment longer, almost rigid, but then he was moving again, plunging deep within her again and again as if he sought to penetrate her very soul. Amanda forgot what she had told him, forgot everything except the burning pleasure he stroked into her body. She couldn’t be still, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything except feel.

When her climax came, it was shockingly intense, sweeping over her in waves and waves of hot, throbbing ecstasy. She was barely aware of whimpering, of holding Walker with all the strength left to her while he shuddered and cried out hoarsely.

It was almost dawn when it began raining. Amanda lay curled at Walker’s side, feeling a damp but blessedly cool breeze blowing into the bedroom and across their naked bodies. He was asleep, she was sure, his breathing deep and even. But she was wide awake.

She hadn’t expected him to say that he loved her too. No, not that But he might, she thought wistfully, have said
something.
He might have said that he was glad—or that he wasn’t glad. He might have told her not to be stupid, and didn’t she know the difference between sex and love? He might even have smiled triumphantly, as males so often did with a conquest made.

Something.

Anything.

Anything to tell her it mattered at all to him that she loved him.