MM03 - Saturday Mornings (13 page)

“Leave me alone, Andrew. You and I have nothing to talk about.”

He touched her face with great tenderness and looked deep into her eyes. “I know why you're running, Margaret Leigh.”

She wet her lips with her tongue before speaking. “You know?”

“Yes. Today I visited Bertha Adams.”

“You had no right!”

“I care about you. That gives me the right.”

“A lot of people used to say they cared about me. It was all lies.”

She tried to pull away, but he wouldn't let her go.

“Don't do this, Margaret Leigh.”

“Do what?”

“Don't you think I know a game of seduction when I see one? What you are about to do won't solve anything. Let me take you home.”

“Home to
Mother?
Home to listen to more of her lies? No, thank you.”

“Everybody gets scared about something sometime. Running away won't help. And throwing away everything that has always been precious to you certainly won't help. You'll only regret it later.”

“What is this? Amateur psychology?”

“Friendship.”

“I don't need you to be my conscience or my guide. Go home, Andrew. Go back to your bird dogs.”

She stalked toward the men's facilities, anger and determination in every step she took. Andrew knew of only one way to save her. He strode past her into the men's bathroom.

Harry Cox was standing in front of the stained sink, looking into the cracked mirror and smoothing his hair over his bald spot. Andrew stationed himself behind Harry.

“I'm Andrew McGill, and Margaret Leigh Jones is my girlfriend.”

Harry's hands stopped in midair. He moved his mouth once or twice, but no sound came out.

“We had a quarrel, and she tried to get back at me by bringing you to the carnival.”

“I didn't know.” Harry swallowed hard and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down.

“No harm done. We've patched things up now. I'll take care of her for the rest of the evening.”

Harry made one courageous stand. “How do I know you're telling the truth? Maybe you're some stranger who is just trying to cut in?”

“She lives on Allen Street with her Aunt Bertha. Her little dog, Christine, wears pink hair ribbons and doesn't like loud noises. Margaret Leigh doesn't drink, doesn't smoke, and when she goes dancing, she wears a blue taffeta dress. She's inordinately proud of her family, especially Governor Ben Adams, and she's working very hard to make something of herself at the library.” He leaned closer to Harry, for the first time in his life using his size to intimidate a main. “Does that about cover it?”

“I guess it does.”

“Good. Then this is what we’ll do.”

He outlined his plan to Harry Cox. Then he went outside to join Margaret Leigh. She was sitting on a redwood bench near the men's room, waiting. Andrew propped his foot on the bench.

“Harry's not coming out.”

“I don't believe you.”

“I told him I was taking over. He’ll stay in there until we leave.”

 “How dare you.” She drew back and swung at him.

 He caught her wrist and pulled her close. His jaw tightened as he looked down at her. “I'm not going to let you go through with this.”

“With what?” She tried to look the very picture of innocence.

“With getting poor old Harry Cox in your bed.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“He didn't have to. I read body language.”

She glanced from his face to the men's room then she sank back onto the bench. “He'll come out. I'm waiting.”

“All right.” Andrew sat down beside her. “We'll both wait.”

They sat side by side, as stiff and cold as two statues in a park. The only difference was that the birds didn't come to perch on their heads.

Standing on his tiptoes and looking out the bathroom window, Harry Cox almost wished the birds would come. After nearly an hour the two of them were still sitting out there. How much longer would they endure? He studied their faces. Andrew looked as implacable as a mountain, and Margaret Leigh looked as if she could face down a pride of lions.

“He's not coming out, Margaret Leigh,” Andrew said.

“That doesn't mean I'm going home with you.” She stood up. “This is a carnival. There's bound to be a man around here who is willing to escort me.” She set off toward the midway.

Andrew caught her arm and fell into step beside her. “I always did enjoy a country fair. What are we going to do next, my love? Not that sitting on the redwood bench for an hour wasn't fun, but it was a little tame for my tastes. What's your pleasure? The carousel? The Ferris wheel?”

“You've never been able to provide my pleasure.” She smiled archly at him.

His jaw tightened as he marched her to the Ferris wheel. Keeping a grip on her arm, he bought two tickets and got in line with her. The line was long and slow moving. During the time they were waiting for their ride, Margaret Leigh began an outrageous flirtation with the muscle-bound roustabout running the wheel.

Andrew was astonished at his capacity for anger. Only his knowledge of why she was acting this way kept him quiet.

The wheel started turning, and they began their climb into the air. Margaret Leigh sat as far away from him as possible on the seat.

“Are you cold over there?”

“No. I have my love to keep me warm.” She leaned over and blew a kiss at the roustabout as the wheel revolved past him.

“Dammit, Margaret Leigh. Don't you know that what you are doing is dangerous?”

“A dangerous life is far preferable to a dull one.”

“You're not going to stop until you get what you want, are you?”

“No.”

Andrew unbuckled the seat belt and flung it aside. Then in one swift move, he closed the space between them and pulled her against his chest. Tipping her face up with one hand, he studied her. She was telling the truth. Determination was written in every line of her face. He lowered his mouth to hers.

She struggled against him, twisting her face aside. “What do you think you're doing?”

“I will be your first, Margaret Leigh.”

“Never.” She glared at him. “Anyhow, you won't be my first.”

“You're a virgin.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I'm not.” She tried to twist away from him again, but he caught her face between his hands. “And I'm not going to sit back and let some clumsy fool get his hands on you.”

“I wouldn't go to your bed if you were the last man on earth.”

“I’ll make you change your mind.”

He set out to do just that. While the Ferris wheel slowly spun around and the carnival music echoed through the night and the neon lights colored their faces with red and blue and yellow, Andrew McGill courted Margaret Leigh Jones.

He kissed her until her lips ached, caressed her until her body was limp. He was showing her that she couldn't refuse his offer. As he took the sweet nectar of her lips, he kept telling himself that.

And she remained staunch, even as her legs turned to butter and her heart became a marshmallow. She could no longer deny what was happening to her. She could no longer keep herself from melting and clinging and blending with Andrew as if they were one. But she told herself she'd put a stop to it when she got good and ready. She'd let Andrew take her all the way to his cabin or wherever he had decided to go. She'd let him undress her and even put her to bed. She'd wait until he was as hot and eager as Tess had said a man could get. And then she'd have her revenge. She'd get up and walk away.

She'd show Andrew. She'd show them all. She didn't need anybody, anybody at all except a faceless stranger to help her make it through one more night. The roustabout on the Ferris wheel had seemed willing. She'd come back to the carnival, if not later, then the next night or the next. After all, the carnival would be there a week. She'd have a week of wild, mindless passion and hot, raw sex. Then the next week...

She didn't know how she'd get through the next week, but she'd think of something. Maybe she'd take a cruise somewhere exotic, or maybe she'd pack a bag and get on a bus out of town, or maybe she'd get an offer from the roustabout. Maybe she'd become a carnival follower, a kept woman who didn't have a thing to worry about except keeping the sawdust out of her shoes and a clean sheet on her bed.

She barely knew when the Ferris wheel drew to a stop. Wrapped tightly in Andrew's embrace, she left the carnival. In a fog she got into his truck and allowed herself to be cuddled up against him as he headed out of Tupelo.

Neither of them spoke. They were too busy thinking ahead.

He was making a noble sacrifice. He was going to let Margaret Leigh use him in order to save her from destruction at the hands of a bumbling fool. He was going to be her teacher, her mentor. He would gently initiate her to the ways of love. And when it was over, when she no longer had any reason to wonder what love was like or whether it could block out all her pain, he would be willing to let her stay with him until she could come to terms with Aunt Bertha's betrayal. He'd help her make it through the tough times. And after she had gone home, healed, he'd go back to his birddog training and his peaceful Saturday mornings sleeping in the sunshine.

He parked his truck under the trees. Her face was pale in the moonlight.

“We're here, Margaret Leigh. My cabin.”

“I guess you bring all your women here.”

“No. Only the special ones.”

For a moment she pretended she was special, and she was there with Andrew under very different circumstances. She draped her arms around his neck.

“Show me how special.” Her eyes closed as she lifted her face to his.

He skimmed his lips across her eyelids and down the side of her cheek. Her head tilted back, and he took her lips once more. He'd always heard that practice made perfect, but he'd never known such perfection as the sweet hot kisses from Margaret Leigh's lips. All the fires she'd kept banked for years smoldered to life.

The kisses became a prelude to love. If she had been any woman except Margaret Leigh, he'd have taken her in the truck. The intensity of his passion shocked him. How could it be possible that he was rasping for breath and fogging up the windows over a woman he merely intended to save? He drew back from her and tried to see her face in the darkness. It was a pale shadow.

“Margaret Leigh, you can back out. Any time you want to, just say so, and I'll take you home... or wherever you want to go.” He traced her cheeks with his fingers as he talked, hoping to calm her, hoping to keep her from thinking he was rejecting her. “It's not that I don't want you. You are a lovely, desirable woman. But I want you to know that you're in control. Tell me no, and I'll stop.”

“Don't stop.”

Without another word, he got out of the truck and came around to her side. He lifted her out and carried her into the house. Not a single lamp burned to light their way to his bedroom. His footsteps were loud as he walked down the hallway.

It was the longest walk of Margaret Leigh's life. Wrapped in Andrew's arms and shrouded by darkness, she felt as if she had begun a long journey into a far and mysterious realm. Sounds were magnified for her: Andrew's footsteps hammering on the wooden floor; his breathing, heavy with passion; her own breathing, tight and labored; even the blood pumping through her body sounded loud in the cool, dark quiet of the cabin in the woods.

She clung to the front of his shirt. Feeling his solid flesh underneath grounded her in reality. Otherwise she might have thought she was in the middle of one of her most vivid romantic dreams.

Andrew kicked open his bedroom door. The room was dark except for a patch of moonlight leading from the window to the bed. He lowered her into that circle of brightness. Bending, he traced his hands down the sides of her face.

“You look like you belong here.”

She couldn't say a word. Now that she was actually in his bed, she was almost paralyzed. Not with fear, not with anger. She had expected both those emotions. What surprised her was that her paralysis came from anticipation of the unknown.

Andrew leaned closer. The moon spotlighted his eyes, and they were so clear and bright, it almost hurt to look at them.

“I'm going to teach you, Margaret Leigh.” His hands traced her face and throat as he talked. “When a man and a woman come together, it is not just a meeting of bodies; it's a meeting of the heart, the mind, and the soul.”

His voice was achingly tender. It almost made her forget her plan. He was weaving a spell over her, and she was caught up in the enchantment.

His hands were on her coat buttons. “Love is best when savored. I'm going to savor you, pretty one... and teach you to savor me.”

She let him slide the coat off and watched while he carefully laid it on a chair. How far should she let him go? How much undressing would it take before she had Andrew in a state of unbridled, uncontrollable passion? Right now he was totally in control. She'd thought sex would be different. She'd imagined that he would push her skirt up and start a frantic exploration of her body. She had thought she could lie back, unfeeling, until the time came to walk out and leave him panting.

She was the one panting. His voice, his eyes, his touch—she was bewitched by them all. He was back again, unzipping her dress and sliding it ever so slowly down her shoulders, and she felt as if her body had suddenly become a violin and Andrew was the maestro. Only his fingers skimmed over her, tracing the lines of her silk slip, and yet every inch of her was vibrating with the music of his touch.

He whispered her name, “Margaret Leigh,” ever so softly. She glanced into his eyes and she knew she could not turn away. Not tonight. She had to have what he offered under any conditions. It didn't matter that he was only teaching her a lesson. It didn't matter that she had vowed she would never make love with him. Nothing mattered except the moment and the beautiful symphony created by the magic touch of the maestro.

She lifted her arms to him.

“I'm here, Andrew.”

Until that moment Andrew had thought he was rescuing her from the clutches of an uncaring stranger. He had thought the session in his bed would be like so many others, a brief exchange of pleasure between two people. He hadn't counted on his feelings. Suddenly, he knew. He wasn't being noble. He was nobody's hero, nobody's knight in shining armor. He was in love.