Hooked (37 page)

“I was out, too.”

In the pale light, he noticed she wore her hat. The same one she'd worn today at the lottery drawing. He liked it. Very simple. No bows or garish ornaments. Simple straw braid with a scarf tied on the crown. Gage deepened his stare. Something else was different besides her hat. Her hair. That thick coppery mass he always longed to sink his fingers into. She'd styled it
differently or done something else with the curls. Because they framed her face, teasing her cheeks and forehead in a way they hadn't done before.

“Well, I should be getting in,” Meg said, clicking the latch and letting herself into the yard.

Gage didn't want to leave her yet. “I'll see you to the door.”

“That's not necessary.”

But Gage was already beside her, offering the crook of his arm to guide her up the porch steps.

Once at the top, Gage heard soft laughter, then a masculine chuckle. He felt Meg stiffen at his side, then yank him back down the stairs and around to the back of the house in a dash over the lawn.

At the stoop off of the kitchen, she sat down on one of the steps and plopped her elbows on her knees. “I can't believe it.”

Gage lowered himself beside her. “Believe what?”

“That was my Grandma Nettie and Mr. Finch on the porch swing.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” She faced him, eyes wide. Gage wished he could see their warm brown color as she spoke. “It was my idea. She must have said yes. Mr. Finch asked her for an ice cream. He's in love with her.”

Saying nothing, Gage smiled. He supposed that love knew no bounds. Age or otherwise.

Meg sighed and fanned her skirt over the tops of her shiny shoes. “I can't go in until they're done spooning on the swing. The kitchen door is always locked after Mr. Finch is done throwing out the dishwater. The only way inside is through that front door and I don't want to interrupt them.”

“I'll stay with you.” Gage removed his hat and let it dangle in his fingertips.

“You don't have to.”

“I want to.”

In truth, Gage didn't want to ever leave her. He wanted to stay. To flirt with her. Flirting wasn't something Gage cared to examine about himself. He either liked a woman enough to invite her to his room, or he didn't. There had never been any “flirting” involved. He was a cut to the chase type of man.

But Meg was complex and flirting and cutting to the chase weren't simple options. She needed to be held, kissed, loved.

Meg cradled her chin on both her hands and stared into the yard. Gage saw her profile, the short curls that hugged her cheek and brushed against the line of her jaw. Without thought, he reached for the brim of her hat and lifted it from her head.

It was then that he knew what was different.

“Christ, Meg . . . what happened to your hair?”

18

H
e didn't like her hair.

Neither had the ladies at Johannah's bridal party. Except for Mrs. Wolcott and Cressie. They thought she looked vogue—or at least that's what they said. Ruth and Hildegarde had been surprised, as had been their mothers. At least her two friends hadn't voiced their opinions out loud. But their mothers had. And their words had stung.

Even so, Meg refused to change her mind about her hair. It felt light and free and even a little sassy as it bobbed on her shoulders and tickled her neck. She liked to shake her head and let the springy curls fall where they wanted. Even Mr. Finch thought she looked becoming. He'd said so.

“I had it cut,” Meg eventually replied in a guarded tone.

The back of Matthew's hand brushed her cheek as he straightened a curl that fell to her jaw line. She felt his knuckles across her skin as he skimmed her ear and then higher to her cheek where he caressed her.

She wasn't prepared for the avalanche of sensations that ran through her. The mere casualness of his touch sent her spiraling, like she was flying off the tire swing and into the sky—sailing, swooning, almost dizzy.

“What did you do with the hair you cut off?” he asked, throwing her off balance.

She'd saved it. Heaven help her, for all her talk of wanting to be her own self and have her own style and mannerisms and not caring about attitudes or things of sentimental value, she hadn't been able to part with her hair. It had taken twenty years to grow that long. She couldn't throw it away. So she'd put the long lengths in a pillow slip and tied a ribbon around the top and stored it in her . . . hope chest.

Not that she'd ever be using her hope chest.

But that's where she put all her treasures. All those things that made her Meg. Everything she'd experienced, thought, or felt in her life thus far. Her old diaries, magazine clippings, coins her grandfather had given her for her birthday, her first corset, her baby blanket, a picture of her mother's grandparents, a tooth of Wayne's that he'd given her when it had fallen out . . . personal things.

Hair was awfully personal.

“I saved it,” Meg managed to reply, trying—with no success—to disregard the warmth of Matthew's fingers against her skin.

“Why did you cut it?”

“Because I wanted to.” She looked into his face, her gaze determined despite the hammering of her heart. His hand lowered to her shoulder. “I suppose you wouldn't like it. But my Grandma Nettie loves it. When she saw me before supper, she couldn't believe her eyes. She thinks it makes me look . . .” She didn't
want to say “
like a fireball ready to take up the charge for womankind”
—that sounded a little
too
renegade. So Meg redefined her grandmother's reaction. “She said it makes me look sophisticated. I'm glad I cut it It's only hair. After all, if I decide I want it long again, I can grow it back.” She suddenly stopped talking. She was babbling and trying to defend her actions—two things she promised herself she wouldn't do.

“I didn't say I didn't like it.” His thumb caressed the column of her neck.

Against her will, Meg found herself asking, “What do you think of it?”

His smile brought a rush of warmth across her skin. “I think it suits you.”

Suits you.
What did that mean?

All of a sudden, Meg wanted to cry.

Did it mean that she was more suited to short hair than long? That she was too different to be like everybody else so it was all right to have hair that bounced on her shoulders when she walked?

Meg managed to say, “Thank you.” But she didn't mean it.

Why should she care if he liked her hair or not? It didn't matter. And yet . . . Her thoughts trailed off to a whispered gasp when his lips touched her cheek.

He must have seen the hurt on her face because he said in a low voice, “I'd be proud to show you off. I'd be the envy of every man in town with you walking at my arm.”

She could hear him breathe against her as he grazed her skin and sought her mouth with his.
Proud to show you off. Envy of every man.
Sweet words like that were fatal to a woman who was in love. Who was trying not to be in love. But just couldn't help it.

Refusing to think, Meg's arms came around his shoulders and he drew her in close and snug next to him. She had never held a man this way before—like she thought she'd die if she couldn't.

They had shared kisses before. She'd felt like an innocent. All dreamy and wanting. Now she knew that she wanted more than kisses. She wanted him to touch her intimately again. She wanted more than caresses. She wanted him in that way a woman wanted a man. But she didn't know how.

Matthew felt cool and warm at the same time. The back of his coat held the chill in the night air, yet the collar of his shirt had captured his body heat. She dared feel his cheek while he kissed her. Rough at the jaw, yet smooth as marble the higher she teased her fingers up his cheek.

She snuggled against him and let him kiss her the way he wanted to. She relaxed into the feel of his lips over hers, letting him rouse in her those passions he'd ignited in her this afternoon.

His tongue swept across her lips, testing, seeking, then inside her mouth in an erotic way that made her toes curl in her shoes. Nobody had ever talked about this. At least none of the girls she knew.

Meg lost herself in the heated kiss, letting his fingers explore her curves. A shoulder, her collarbone, chin, the length of her neck. Then lower. To her breast. When he'd done this earlier, she tensed, shocked at first and feeling very self-conscious about what she lacked in the bosom department.

But Matthew hadn't minded. Or at least he hadn't said anything. And it had felt so good, she hadn't wanted him to stop. And yet, she got that odd feeling again . . . like she was lacking. And he knew it.

She loathed herself for saying against his lips, “I'm not a big woman.”

To her horror, he laughed. Soft and low, then kissed her hard and said, “I think you're perfect.”

How could he think she was perfect? She was tall and thin. Not curvaceous and well-rounded like her friends. Even if she did have the right figure, she was a mix of so many things on the inside. Unconventional. Conventional to a degree.

Meg held on to a soft sigh as his hand leisurely explored her. Her nipple tightened beneath his touch. In spite of the corset and shimmy she wore, she was sure he could feel her. He deepened the kiss and she clung to him.

Dear heaven, she'd let him unbutton her shirtwaist. If he wanted to, she would let him. What was she thinking? She was poised to tell him to do it. To pull at the ribbons on her chemise. Just so he could touch her without the hindrance of clothing. But she was unable to speak.

Yet she was bold enough to take his fingers and guide them to the top tiny pearly button. His hand lingered a moment. Then he rested his palm over the tattoo of her heart beating beneath his fingers.

“Meg . . . you know I want to. But not this way. Not on a porch.”

She swallowed, suddenly feeling chilled to the bone. Feeling like a floozy. She sat up, away from him, and pulled at the collar of her blouse to right the crooked fabric. “Of course,” she managed. “You're right. I . . . I wasn't myself. I don't know what happened . . .”

“When I kiss you,” he murmured, “I'm not myself either.”

On a sigh, Meg pointed out, “Even when we aren't kissing, we aren't ourselves. You're Vernon Wilberforce and I'm Arliss Bascomb. I think we need to remind ourselves or else . . .” She couldn't finish.
Or else we'll do something we'd regret.

From the front of the house came the squeak of the door as it closed. Grandma Nettie had gone inside.

Meg stood. “I have to go in now.”

Matthew followed her around the house. She climbed the steps to the porch and disappeared into the darkness. She didn't want him to see her; see the affect he had on her. She tingled and shivered. She wanted to be with him. But Wayne stood between them. Wayne, and her emotions that went crazy when Matthew kissed her. Was she so in love with the idea of love that she forgot about how things really were?

She'd struggled for independence. Had let it go. Gotten it back. She hadn't come half-close to discovering what her life could be like without love. Here she had the opportunity, and she was cheating herself.

How could she have allowed what happened on the porch? It seemed everything and more told them not to be involved. Why couldn't she listen to reason?

Behind her, she heard Matthew call out.

“I'll see you tomorrow. It's our last lesson.”

She couldn't make herself reply. Her voice was too unsteady. She didn't want him to hear the quiver.

And she didn't even know if she could be in his company anymore. It was getting so hard to remain indifferent, uncaring. The pretending was wearing her down to a nub.

Without a word, Meg gripped the door knob and closed the door behind her.

She stood in the foyer and leaned her back against the door, fighting back a sob that threatened to engulf her.