Something Wild (18 page)

“What do you see now?” she whispered against his mouth.

“A pretty woman sleeping in my bathtub.” He rugged her mouth against his and kissed her lightly. “Great breasts. A curvy bottom. Long legs.” He yawned and she felt his fingers move from her hair, to her neck, slowly traveling down the curve of her spine until they rested against her hip.

When she thought he’d pull her against him again, his grip loosened, and only seconds later, his breathing deepened. At last, he slept.

Instinct told her to get up, to find a way to leave, but she said to hell with instinct, pulled the covers over both of them, and snuggled close to Mike to soak up his warmth.

Tomorrow was soon enough to bring all of this to an end.

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Charity woke with her derriere
spooned against Mike’s jeans-clad hips. His arm had long ago slung over her side, and his fingers grasped her waist. Apparently he had no intention of letting her go, even while he slept.

Not good. Not good at all
. It felt wonderful, but it definitely smacked of sin.

He was a minister, for crying out loud, and she was a showgirl. If one of his parishioners caught them in bed together, or even got a hint of what had gone on between them during the night, he might lose his job. His name would be mud. He’d be a broken man.

Hmm, the perfect candidate for Las Vegas.

No, no, no. That was a ridiculous thought. Mike belonged here with his horses and his good reputation. He had enough things burdening him, like the memory of his wife, without adding even more grief to his life.

Slowly, silently, Charity eased his hand from her stomach and the fingers of his other hand from her tangled hair. Apparently the storm had blown away, and she could see a touch of pinkish, early morning sky through the window. With any luck, she could slide out of bed, rush to the laundry room, get into her own clothes, and get home before anyone caught her in this compromising situation.

Sliding out of bed, however, wasn’t as simple as she thought it would be because the tail of her shirt had wedged under Mike’s hip. She tugged and his eyes opened sleepily.

“Good morning,” he whispered drowsily, nuzzling her neck and making her toes tingle while he slipped his arm back around her waist and worked his fingers right up under her breasts. Then ... he fell back to sleep.

Oh, she could get used to this but it was wrong, wrong, wrong.

When Mike’s breathing deepened she went through the same escape routine. Move arm. Tug shirt from under hip. Slip away without waking him.

Success.

Her bare feet, all nice and warm from having rested against Mike’s hot body for the past few hours, hit the hardwood floor and the chill ripped through her.
Jeez it’s cold
!

She rushed to the Indian rug, which was a tad warmer than a block of ice, and pulled Mike’s boxers up to her waist. Of course, they promptly slipped back to her hips, exposing belly button, belly, and almost everything else. She tugged Mike’s flannel shirt over her bottom, stifling a gasp when she realized that only one button was buttoned—crookedly. No wonder Mike’s palms and fingers had had free access to her skin. She might as well have been naked.

The bed creaked and she took one last peek at the slumbering man. His hair was mussed, his cheeks, chin, and jaw nearly black with a heavy coat of whiskers, and long black lashes rested against the dark circles beneath his eyes. He rolled his shoulders as if they were tired and tight, reached toward the empty side of the bed, fished around for something that wasn’t there, then pulled the fluffy pillow up against him.

Time to go, before she got jealous and crawled back on the mattress and snuggled again.

Creeping out of the bedroom, Charity slipped down the cold wood stairs, ignored Jessie’s pictures in the living room, and dashed into the kitchen—where she bumped breasts first into the face of a complete stranger. Actually, she didn’t realize the woman was a complete stranger until they each stumbled back a foot or two and glared at each other.

Charity gulped, grabbed at the tails of her unbuttoned-except-for-one-button shirt and clasped it over her exposed belly. When she was somewhat composed, she said, “Hello.”

The little woman with short, curly brown hair frowned as her judgmental eyes tried to make sense of the stranger in Mike’s house. “I know you, don’t I?”

“I don’t believe so,” Charity said, trying to keep her voice low so Mike wouldn’t wake. “I’m Charity Wilde.”

The lady frowned, staring at Charity’s brown hair that had once been black—brown hair that was now a tangled mess, with a hunk cut out of it somewhere. “Yes, yes, that’s right, the showgirl,” the stranger acknowledged. “I saw you at Lauren’s wedding and the family was talking about you last night at dinner.”

Good things? Charity wondered. Bad? If they’d known about the events of the past few hours, the talk would have been scandalous.

The little lady shuffled across the kitchen, reached into a cabinet, and took out a canister of coffee, then proceeded to fill a filter with yummy smelling French roast.

“I’m Fay Atkinson. A friend of Pastor Mike’s.” Fay looked at Charity over her shoulder. “Is he here?”

“He’s asleep, I’m afraid.”

Fay’s critical gaze studied Charity’s attire—or lack thereof. “Rough night?”

“He took an injured horse to the vet and didn’t get home till sometime past two.”

“I see.”

“Is there something I can help you with?” Charity asked, as if she had more right to be here than Fay.

“No, no, there were some things I wanted to discuss with
Pastor
Mike, but they can wait until church.
Pastor
Mike delivers the most amazing sermons. Never heard a one that didn’t inspire me. Same can be said about everyone who comes to hear him.” Again Fay hit Charity with that holier-than-thou look. “Will you be joining our congregation today so you can hear him preach?”

Charity shook her head. The last thing she wanted to hear Mike do was preach. “I’m heading back to Vegas this afternoon.”

“That’s too bad. As I recall, you have a delightful voice, which would have been a nice addition to our choir.”

“Thank you,” Charity said, even though she couldn’t tell if Fay was being sarcastic or sincere.

“Do you think the
pastor
will be down soon?” Fay asked, frowning as she looked at her watch.

“I couldn’t say. Would you like me to wake him for you?”

“Of course not.” She reached into a cupboard and pulled out plates and mugs. “I’ve got five or ten minutes before I need to head to church and put out the flowers for this morning’s service. Why don’t the two of us have a bite to eat before I go.”

“I really need to get going.”

“Surely you can try one of my sticky buns first.” Fay peeled the cellophane off a tray full of cinnamon rolls and set them on the table, taking away the cookies and birthday cake Charity had put there last night. “You won’t find any others like them this far west. It’s a special family recipe. They’re a favorite of Pastor Mike’s.”

Was Fay a favorite of Mike’s, too? Charity wondered as Fay dished an oozing, cinnamon-and-sugar roll onto each plate. Fay obviously spent a lot of time here, and even now she was playing hostess, expertly filling coffee cups and carrying them, a sugar bowl, and a small carton of cream to the table.

“So,” Fay said, joining Charity at the table. “Are you and the pastor
good
friends?”

“Just friends.”

Fay smiled. “I’m sure Roy Campbell—he’s a member of our congregation—will be delighted to hear that. He’s got a twenty-eight-year-old sister who’s just gotten a divorce and is moving back to the area. I’m sure Roy’s thinking of hooking her up—permanently—with Pastor Mike, although I think Dorothy’s all wrong for him.”

“I was under the impression that Pastor Mike wasn’t interested in getting married again.”

“So he says.” Fay took a bite of cinnamon roll followed by a quick sip of coffee. “I remember when Jessie died. Never in my life have I seen a man so stricken. Poor boy’s been grieving ever since. Far be it from me to pry, but I’ve told him again and again that he needs to settle down, find another girl like Jessie. Bless my heart, she was just the sweetest thing. Pretty, petite, and what a talent she had for painting.” Fay cut a wedge of cinnamon roll with her fork and drew it toward her mouth. “Do you paint?”

“No.”

“That’s right. You sing and dance. Well”—Fay chewed the bite of roll—“be that as it may, Jessie was the best wife a minister could have, Mike even told me so once upon a time. Said if he ever married again, he’d want someone just like Jessie.”

And Charity knew she herself was the exact opposite.

Fay leaned close to Charity. “You haven’t overheard Mike talking about my niece Raylene have you? She’s pretty, petite, and sweeter than the cinnamon rolls I brought this morning.”

“He may have mentioned your niece, but—”

“I’m surprised he didn’t fill your head full of talk about her,” Fay interrupted. “He’s chatted with me about her on and off for months now. I honestly think the man’s smitten. Couldn’t take his eyes off of her at church last week, and then when he joined us for dinner, well, let me just say, I haven’t seen him smile or laugh so much in years.”

Fay’s words were making it clearer by the minute that Charity could never replace Jessie in Mike’s heart, not that she wanted to. But there had been a moment or two when she thought she could fall in love with Mike, if she didn’t have other plans.

Fay took the last sip of her coffee. “You’re not after Pastor Mike like every other single woman in these parts, are you?”

Charity laughed lightly. “He’s just a friend.”

Fay set down her cup and clasped Charity’s hands. “I’m so glad it’s nothing more than that. Not that you wouldn’t make a lovely wife and a nice addition to our little congregation, but, as I said before, Pastor Mike wants—and needs— someone just like Jessie.”

“Of course, he does.” Charity nodded, not missing the subtlety behind Fay’s comment. Pretty and petite had nothing to do with what she felt Mike needed. It was the sweet part that Fay was hinting at, and everybody knew that Vegas showgirls were far from sweet.

Charity took a sip of coffee, hoping to hide the sudden pang of hurt flitting through her, when the unmistakable thud of two feet jumping out of bed and landing on the hardwood floor sounded right over her head. If that wasn’t bad enough, Mike shouted, “Charity!”

“My lands.” Fay’s eyes widened. “Was that Pastor Mike?”

Charity wished she could say it wasn’t, but that would be lying, so she merely said, “I guess he’s awake now,” and took a deep breath, anticipating the worst because she couldn’t miss the thunder of Mike’s feet running down the stairs.

Mike barreled into the kitchen. “Don’t go—”

If he’d planned to say more, he chomped down on his words when he caught sight of Fay sitting at the table. Charity watched the muscles clench in his jaw. Saw his naked chest rise and fall heavily, and, unfortunately, she couldn’t miss the fact that his feet were bare or that the top button of his jeans wasn’t buttoned.

This did not look good.

Mike plowed his fingers through his hair and gripped the back of his neck, as if a sudden pain had jabbed him. “Good morning, Fay.”

“Good morning ...
Michael
.” Fay sounded like a mom scolding her young son when she shoved up from the table and went to the counter. “Could I get you some coffee and one of my sticky buns. The ones you like so much?”

He rubbed his hand over his whiskers, then buttoned the top button of his jeans while Fay’s back was to him. “Sure.”

When he sat beside Charity, he rolled his eyes, and beneath the table rested his hand on her leg and squeezed.

“Did you come by just to bring the sticky buns?” Mike asked, when Fay slid a clean plate and fork and a steaming cup of strong coffee in front of him.

“There were some things I wanted to talk about, but go ahead and help yourself to a roll, then we’ll chat.”

Charity expected Mike to explain the situation to Fay, to tell her that nothing was going on, that their disheveled appearance was perfectly innocent. No such luck. Mike merely lifted a cinnamon roll onto his plate, cut off a wedge with his fork, and lifted it toward his mouth.

Fay cleared her throat quite loudly. “Excuse me,
Pastor
, but aren’t you forgetting something?”

Mike held the fork a fraction of an inch from his lips, and his brows narrowed as he looked from Fay to Charity then back again. “I figured the two of you had met already.”

“I was thinking about you saying grace. After all, it is Sunday morning.”

Mike put down the fork, pulled his hand away from Charity’s leg, and threaded his fingers in front of him. He bowed his head and closed his eyes. “Dear Lord. Bless our beloved Fay Atkinson for her friendship, her thoughtfulness, and for the delicious sticky buns she was so kind to bring this morning. Thank you for the uninterrupted sleep that came so easily last night, and for bringing Charity out here to the middle of nowhere. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

Charity’s gaze drifted over her folded fingers to see Fay’s closed eyes and half-frown, and more importantly, Mike’s wink that flew at her from his sparkling eyes.

“That was a lovely blessing, Pastor.” Fay took a sip of her coffee, but her stare continually flitted to Mike’s bare chest.

“So, Fay,” Mike said, finally putting the bite of cinnamon roll in his mouth, “what was it you wanted to tell me?”

“Raylene will be joining us at church this morning.”

“She’s been there every Sunday for the past couple of months.”

“Yes, but today she’s bringing her prize-winning hazelnut torte for the gathering afterward. You remember that torte, don’t you? She brought it for dinner last Sunday.”

“I remember.”

Mike’s spare hand found its way under the table and again he squeezed Charity’s leg. Her heart thundered in her chest. She liked the warmth, the way his thumb circled her skin. What she didn’t like was the fact that Fay’s eyes continually darted toward the edge of the table, as if she knew what was going on beneath it.