Shameless (The Contemporary Collection) (5 page)

He wondered, abruptly, what she would look like when she was pregnant. Nothing less than bewitching, he suspected, much as she was now, but more so. He liked the shape of her mouth, generous, made for smiling, and he thought he could spend quite a while getting used to the way her brows arched. Her witch's eyes with their layers of blue and green, gold and gray, fascinated him; he would like to move in nose to nose, to study them. Her cheeks were a little hollow, and there were shadows under her eyes; she could use a few more pounds and a lot more sleep. Still, she was beautiful, no doubt about it. Pregnancy could only add to it.

He put down an extremely well-peeled carrot and picked up another one before he spoke in an abrupt change of subject. “I meant to tell you before, I'll check out your car tomorrow and put new tires on it. Will you be home if I bring it by around nine?”

“There's no need,” she said with a startled glance. “I can send a man from the garage.”

“I'd rather see to it; Keith may have left you another little surprise.”

Her movements stilled and doubt invaded her eyes. “More damage? You don't really think so?”

Did he? He wasn't sure, but it made a nice excuse. He said, “I can tell more about it when daylight comes. In the meantime, I can leave the Jeep here, in case there's somewhere you need to be in the morning.”

“How would you get home?”

“Walk,” he said with a shrug. “It isn't far through the woods.”

The microwave oven chimed as its cycle ended. There was a silence as she moved to take the steaks out and tear open their plastic wrapping. She turned them out onto a platter, found Worcestershire sauce and set it out, then reached for a pottery garlic jar. Holding a garlic bulb in her fingers, she said, “There's another solution.”

He looked up, alerted by a shading of strain in her voice. “Such as?”

“You could spend the night here.”

He put down carrot and peeler and stood with his arms braced and his hands spread flat on the countertop. The tile was cool under his palms, but did nothing to ward off the sudden furnace heat in his brain. As he turned his head slowly to look at her, it felt as if every bone in his neck grated and snapped with the tension that gripped him.

“Do what?” he asked in toneless disbelief.

She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “You heard me.”

He had. That was the trouble.

Outside, the rain had begun to pour down again in a steady drumming. He counted his pounding pulse, which made a counterpoint to the soft noise.

“In one of the spare bedrooms, of course,” she said hurriedly.

He looked away from her, fastening his gaze on his own pale face reflected in the window over the sink with the dark night behind it. His voice like cracking ice, he said, “I can't.”

“Why? It's only one night, not a lifetime commitment. There's no obligation involved.”

“I realize that.” At least he had assumed it.

“So where's the problem? Unless — I see.” She turned her back on him.

“I doubt it,” he said, the words measured, louder than he intended, though he couldn't help that. “I don't give a damn about being used — there's nothing unusual in that. It would give me great satisfaction to act as a buffer between you and Keith, if that's what you need. I don't care what the gossipy neighbors think, as long as you don't. And I have no need to deny what you ask out of some misplaced retaliation for the bad blood between our families.”

“What is it then? Do you walk in your sleep? Or are you afraid I'll be consumed with lust in the middle of the night and crawl into bed with you?”

A short, hard laugh left him. “That's the least of my worries.”

“Well?” She turned back to stare at him.

“Suppose,” he said, switching his gaze to her reflection there beside his own in the rain-speckled glass, “that I hurt you?”

“You wouldn't. You couldn't.”

The look on her face was so certain. She didn't understand, even after what he had told her.

He moved almost before the decision was made; that was the way it worked. Before she could make a sound, before she even began to guess what he intended, he locked his arms around her in a death grip, one of many he had learned too well. He wasn't hurting her, but she could not move without causing herself pain. Nor, given her lesser strength and lack of knowledge, could she possibly break free.

In those fleeting seconds as he settled his hold into place, he felt the unaccustomed thrust of doubt. His motives for this demonstration, he suspected, were far from noble. To feel the soft delicacy of her body pressed against him again — to know that she was inescapably in his power, however briefly — for these things any excuse would do.

He shifted slightly to place his fingers on the tender curve of her neck behind and below her ear. His voice no more than a whisper, he said, “Do you realize that I could kill you in seconds, without a sound, by applying pressure just here?”

“I don't doubt it at all,” she said, the words astringent.

“Do you understand that I could do anything at all to you, and there is no way on God's green earth you could stop me.”

The pupils of her eyes dilated, and her breasts rose against him with the depth of the breath she took. She searched his face for a brief instant before she released the air in her lungs. She said, “I can see how it might be possible.”

“Then you realize why I can't stay?”

She stared up at him with irritation seeping into her face, collecting in her eyes. “I realize that if you don't turn me loose this minute, I'm going to kick you where it hurts, just like I did Keith.”

He grinned; he couldn't help it. And he had meant to be so menacing. The only way she could manage to hurt him was if he let her, but that wasn't what tickled his sense of humor. It was her spirit, her sheer, uncaring defiance.

If there was a woman who could survive whatever vicious instinct he might have, whatever brutal act he might inadvertently commit against her, it was possible she was the one.

Possible, yes, but not likely.

THEY ATE THEIR STEAK AND SALAD IN virtual
silence. Cammie, all too well aware that Reid had neither agreed to her proposal nor completely refused it, was reluctant to say anything that might swing his decision the wrong way.

She glanced up once, to find his gaze resting on a spot a foot or so below her chin. The belt of the robe she wore had slipped, she discovered, letting the neckline fall open, exposing the pale curves of her breasts.

She should have changed clothes, she thought; she would have been more comfortable. It had seemed awkward and rather coy, however, after wearing the robe in front of Reid at the Fort.

In a gesture as casual as she could make it, she reached under the napkin on her lap to draw the edges of the robe tighter, closing the gap. When she looked at Reid again, he was giving his steak his undivided attention, and the tops of his ears were pink.

Her attention was caught by his hands as he sliced off a bite of meat. She had noticed them earlier. They were big and square, but well-shaped. The fingers were long and marked by small white scars. There was precision and controlled strength in the way he used them. She wondered what it would be like to feel them upon her, inside her.

She drew a sharp, sudden breath and was not surprised to feel heat rising through the lower part of her body. Reaching for the glass of burgundy she had poured to go with the meal, she took a hasty swallow.

She must be losing her mind, having a mental breakdown; there was no other explanation for the things she had done this evening, beginning with firing her pistol at Keith. It wasn't like her, it wasn't like her at all.

It would be easy to say her husband had driven her to it, but she wasn't sure she could accept that excuse. It was as if she had stepped over some invisible boundary within herself and now, somehow, was speaking and behaving with primitive intuition. It was frightening, yet exhilarating at the same time. Perhaps it was like the dangerous instincts Reid had been trying to describe to her. There was something seductive in the thought of being controlled by something other than pure reason.

It was possible, of course, that she was making too much of the situation, Cammie told herself. What had she done, after all, except invite a man into her house, then ask for his protective presence for the night? Surely there was nothing so unusual in that.

Except that it wasn't just any man. It was Reid Sayers.

So she was attracted to him, so what? She wasn't some teenager with more hormones than self-control. That Reid was in the house, if he decided to stay, would make no difference in how well she slept.

And even if it did, the problem would not be insurmountable. She would stay in her bed, and he would stay in his. The male body held few mysteries for her, and no great enchantment. How much difference could there be between two men?

How much indeed? Exactly?

She would not think of it. Whatever happened, would happen.

They cleared away the dishes, leaving them in the dishwasher for the housekeeper to deal with in the morning. Afterward, Cammie left Reid drinking coffee in what had been the front parlor, now known as the living room, while she excused herself for a few minutes.

Upstairs, she quickly put fresh sheets on the bed in the blue bedroom that was usually used for guests, and checked the towels and the soap situation in the connecting bath. There was no guarantee that Reid would use any of it, but she had found that Keith would sometimes accept a
fait accompli
if it was sprung on him.

She paused as she was taking a new toothbrush still in the package from the closet. She thought she had heard a door close, the back door. The sound was quiet, but she was used to every creak and click in the old house.

Had Reid left? She could not imagine that he would without a word of good-bye. Then again, he was still a stranger to her, in spite of everything.

Cammie found Reid in the sun room, a cozy place with tall windows and a southern exposure. Furnished with wicker cushioned in a pink-and-gray-striped material, with a huge cut-leaf philodendron in a tall terracotta pot and African violets on the windowsills, it was her favorite room. She spent most of her free time there, reading, stitching, crocheting, or working on her watercolor paintings of flowers.

He was standing in front of the gray-veined, marble fireplace that centered one wall. With his hands jammed into the back pockets of his jeans, he was staring up at the portrait of her that was centered above the mantel.

Cammie paused in the doorway, watching the look of absorbed contemplation on his face, before she came forward. Her tone neutral, she said, “It was done from a photograph; Keith commissioned it for our fifth anniversary. A bit too lady-of-the-manor, don't you think?”

“Maybe,” he said, his face relaxing in a smile as he turned, “but it still suits you.”

She refused to acknowledge the pleasure his comment gave her. She said instead, “Your room is ready when you are.”

He didn't move, though his face hardened to the same texture as the polished marble behind him. In the soft tones of a man issuing a warning, he said, “I haven't agreed to stay.”

“I know.” She added baldly, “Will you?”

Appreciation for her frankness, and something more, glinted in the blue of his eyes. It was possible that the saving grace, if there was to be one, would be his sense of humor.

He turned back to the mantel, taking something from the shelf above it. When he faced her again, her magnum pistol was in his hand. “I meant to give this to you earlier, but it — slipped my mind.”

She accepted it, weighing it in her hand as she looked up at him. His shirt was splattered at the shoulders with damp spots of rain, and droplets sparkled on the gold-brown hair of his forearms below the rolled sleeves. The handgun must have been the reason he had left the house just now, she thought; he'd gotten it from the Jeep.

She said, “You had it all along.”

He acknowledged it with a brief nod. “I saw it when you dropped it in the woods. It seemed you might have a use for it.”

“I might at that,” she said.

There was a pause. Then in trenchant tones, he said, “About tonight… discouraging Keith is one thing, but what about the effect on your divorce? What if he decides to use you having a man here against you in court?”

“He wouldn't dare,” she answered. “His own adultery has been so public that documenting it would be ridiculously easy. Besides, I asked for nothing from him, so there's nothing to contest, nothing for him to gain. The community property we've accumulated is so mortgaged, the only thing left to divide is the debts.”

“Even this house?” he asked with a quick frown.

Cammie shook her head. “Evergreen is heir property and mine alone. Actually, Keith wanted to put it up for cash. He even went so far as to arrange it behind my back, but I refused to sign the papers.”

Reid said tightly, “I heard about your father and mother. It's a little late, but I'm sorry.”

Her father had been killed in a head-on collision with a log truck less than a year after her marriage. Her mother, who had been fighting breast cancer at the time, had simply stopped struggling and let it take her. Cammie accepted his sympathy with a slight inclination of her head before she went on. “Anyway, the communal property consists of our two cars and the silver and china we were given as wedding gifts.”

“I know his interest in the mill is tied up, so he can't draw on it directly, but he makes a good salary. Is he that bad at managing his money?”

Reid's manner was intent, the question personal. It was possible, however, that he had a right to ask. Any assistant manager who could not handle his personal business could hardly be considered a good choice to control the finances of a company like Sayers-Hutton Bag and Paper Company. Still, going into detail about Keith's spending habits felt wrong to her.

She said after a brief hesitation, “Let's just say Keith enjoys the good life.”

A smile indented the corner of Reid's mouth. “I had almost forgotten that such discretion existed. I suppose your mother taught you it's impolite to talk about money problems.”

“Something like that.”

“You must have been the perfect wife. Keith's an idiot.”

She turned sharply away from Reid, moving to where a half-completed watercolor of a wild purple flag, or iris, sat on an easel. Putting the handgun down on a nearby table, she reached out to touch the silky paper, feeling for dryness.

Over her shoulder she said, “I tried to be perfect. I took gourmet cooking lessons and studied books on home decorating and table presentation in order to be a good hostess. I joined all the right clubs and groups to improve our social life. I exercised and ate right to stay in shape; I spent hours on my complexion, my hair and my nails. I read to broaden my mind, and drove out of town to buy sex manuals to find out what was wrong with our love life. I studied all the magazine articles that said I was supposed to be endlessly understanding, never talk about my problems or pains, but encourage my man to tell me his. And do you know what happened?”

“I can guess,” Reid said. “Keith didn't appreciate it.”

She turned to face him, her eyes dark. “He took it for granted. He thought I was supposed to do all these things. In his mind, he deserved perfection.”

“And now he thinks you have no right to deny him his perfect world since he's decided he wants it back.”

“It's more a matter of pride than anything else. He thinks if he calls and begs and pleads and follows me around, making my life miserable, that I'll believe he loves me and give in. He's wrong. But the six-month waiting period before the petition for divorce goes into force will be up soon. If the usual conditions exist, no reconciliation, no cohabitation, then the decree can be handed down immediately.”

“You think he's getting desperate, then?”

She was grateful to Reid for putting it into words for her. She said, “I'd like to convince him it's no use, that I can never go back to him.”

“Which is where I come in.”

“If you don't mind.”

As she met his gaze, she recalled some of the things she'd said to him, just now and earlier. It struck her that she had never even thought of saying such things to Keith. In all their six years of marriage, her husband never guessed that she had read a sex manual, never dreamed that was where she'd found some of the subtle suggestions she had put to him. Not that it had done any good.

Reid Sayers was different. She had the feeling that she could say anything to him, that he would never be shocked or contemptuous, or even surprised. There was a bedrock of tolerance within him, perhaps beyond that of most men; the things that had happened to him, that he had seen and done, had ensured it. He would not presume to judge a man, or a woman, but would accept them as they were with all their flaws. He had lost his belief in perfection.

“Do you have a job?” he asked in serious tones.

She smiled a little as she saw that his mind ran to practical matters, unlike her own. “You're asking how I'll live? I have a small inheritance, plus a half interest in an antique shop. Neither allows for wild extravagance, but I'll get by. Also, I have a degree in French, and I've worked on a number of CODOFIL projects — the Council for Development of French in Louisiana — at the state level. As it happens, I'll be leaving tomorrow for a weekend CODOFIL conference in New Orleans. I could probably get a job teaching French through that connection, if need be. And if all else fails, I suppose I can turn Evergreen into a bed and breakfast place.”

A corner of his mouth tugged in amusement. “Somehow, I can't see you welcoming tourists and getting up at six in the morning to set out croissants and coffee.”

“I'll manage. I'm not one of those helpless females who has never paid a bill or bought an insurance policy. As a matter of fact, I always took care of those things.”

“Perfect, like I said. So the only thing you need right now to ensure a decent future is a man in your — spare — bed.”

His voice was even and not at all encouraging, still she felt a sensation inside very like elation. Her face warm, but her expression as serious as his, she said, “Yes.”

He watched her for long moments. Turning from her slightly, he took his hands from his pockets. He raised one arm to rest a wrist on the mantel, his fingers curling slowly into a fist. His chest swelled with the depth of the breath he took, and she heard its rush as he released it. Finally he said, “If — and I do mean if — I should happen to agree, there will be ground rules. Do you think you can abide by them?”

She didn't care for the sound of that. Tilting her head, she said, “Such as?”

“They're simple, really, but important. Don't ever walk up behind me. Don't move too fast in my vicinity unless I'm watching you. And don't, for the love of God, approach me in the dark without fair warning. Forget even one of these, and we may both be sorry. But by then it could be too late.”

She stood listening to the echoes of warning and desolation in his voice, and she wanted to cry. For any man to be so terrified of human contact — not for himself, but for others — that he would cut himself off from it with such ruthless determination, was tragic. The urge to help him was inescapable.