The Quiet Seduction (9 page)

Ellen caught him by the hand. “Please, I can't help you if you won't let me. Whatever it is you remembered—almost remembered—tell me and maybe I can make a connection.”

“Get the books.”

She stepped back, catching her breath. “All right,” she said quietly. “I'll go back now. The library doesn't close until nine.”

Cold air flowed in through the open front door. In early winter, the days were warm enough, but the temperature plummeted once the sun went down. Storm said, “No, don't go. It'll wait. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you, it's just— It was so close!”

She'd picked up his hand again and was unconsciously rubbing his knuckles. If it was supposed to be soothing, he could have told her it missed by a Texas mile. To hell with his name, right now he was tempted to sweep her into his arms and take her upstairs. Not to the bed he slept in, because that had been her husband's bed those last few weeks before he'd gone to the hospital.

“Sorry if I was a little too dramatic.”

“Stop apologizing. I want to help any way I can, but I refuse to fight you for the privilege.” She had a way of looking him directly in the eye, but where hers were clear as tourmaline, his had more than once been called inscrutable.

And how in the hell did he know that?

“Listen, don't go to the library tonight.” He started
to tell her she could drop him off there tomorrow, or better yet, lend him her truck. Only he didn't have a library card and he didn't have a driver's license. He had a name—Harrison. Maybe.

The phone book was full of Harrisons, a few of them with the right initials. He had called another one today, only to have a woman's voice answer, “Jessica Harrison. I'm unable to come to the phone now, but if you'll leave a message—”

He'd hung up, too discouraged to hear any more. He was increasingly certain he had some connection with the missing district attorney. With that much to go on, it might have made sense to let the police take over his search for an identity, but for some reason he was gut-deep reluctant to do it. That very reluctance seemed to feed on itself, making him even more reluctant. It was almost as if the information was there for the taking, but he was afraid to reach out. Afraid of something, anyway.

Hadn't she as much as accused him of just that? Of being afraid to face reality?

“Ellen, there's something you'd better know. It might be important.” Now he was stroking her hand.

From the kitchen Pete yelled, “Mom, I've cleaned off my plate, now can I have seven cookies?”

“Three,” she called back without removing her gaze from Storm's face.

“He actually ate that stuff?” Storm queried softly.

“Technicality. He cleaned it off into the garbage can. Pete doesn't lie.”

Chuckling, he lowered his chin so that it rested on the top of her head. God, he needed moments like this. Call it respite—call it salvation. She smelled like sham
poo and hay and just a bit like horse, but it was a good smell. A wholesome smell.

“What do I need to know?” she prompted, her voice partially muffled in the folds of the shirt he was wearing.

“That I think I might have a reason to avoid cops. I could have turned myself in as soon as I could've made it into town, but for some reason—” He broke off, sweat beading his forehead with the effort to drag forth the information that was so tantalizingly close. “Can you think of one good reason for a man to be afraid of the law? Other than the obvious, that is.”

She didn't move. Didn't look up and didn't reply.

“Ellen?”

“I'm working on it.” She took a deep breath, then said, “Look, you want to know what I think? I definitely don't think you're a criminal. I'm sure there are any number of perfectly good reasons why someone wouldn't particularly want to get involved with the police.”

“Name one,” he challenged. She stepped back and his arms fell away. He replaced them and pulled her close again. She might not need it, but he sure as hell did.

“All right, I will. How about if the cops were crooked?”

He took a deep breath and held it. “Are they?”

“Not that I've ever heard. But then, I've never had any reason to find out. Out here in the county we have a sheriff. So far as I know, his department is above reproach.”

“So far as you know.”

She sighed. He leaned against the wall and pulled
her against him. It seemed the most natural thing in the world. “So far as I know,” she repeated.

“Mind telling me something?”

“Anything. Name, age, weight, childhood nickname?” It was a deliberate effort to ease the tension, they both recognized it as such. Recognized the need for it, as well.

“None of the above. Although the childhood nickname sounds interesting.”

“It's not. What else do you want to know?”

“What's a turbid medium?”

She actually laughed aloud at that. Eyes sparkling, she leaned back against his arms—at least as far as he would let her—and said, “Art theory. Did I tell you I studied art in college? Lord knows why, you can't make a living at it, but at the time, that wasn't a consideration.”

“And the meaning is…?” he drawled, smothering the uncomfortable knowledge that by pursuing trivial answers he was avoiding more meaningful ones.

“It was a painting technique used by some of the old masters. Using a thin white wash over a warm color. The result was cool, sort of like blue without being actually blue, if you know what I mean.”

Slowly, he shook his head. “I'd better write that down before it gets lost. Never can tell when you might need to know something like that.”

She laughed, and he did, too, and then his face moved toward hers. The atmosphere was suddenly fraught. Pending. The way it had been just before the tornado had come roaring down on him.

The kiss started almost as an experiment. His lips brushed against hers, caressing gently—moist flesh dragging softly against moist flesh. It was an incredibly
tender kiss. When the tip of his tongue touched the corner of her mouth, she gripped his shirt with both fists. The heavy jacket he was wearing—her husband's jacket—was suddenly too warm. There were no romantic trappings, none at all, yet never had he been more moved by any woman. By any kiss. Without knowing how he knew, he simply knew.

It was the sound of a breaking dish that tore them apart. Ellen jerked in his arms and blinked up at him, her lips still damp from his kiss. “I'd better—”

“Yeah, me, too.”

G
rateful for the distraction, Ellen hurried into the kitchen, followed more slowly by Storm. “Need a hand?” he asked.

“I'm sorry, Mom. It just slipped out of my hand.”

“Right. And your supper just slipped into the garbage can.” Confronted with the evidence of her son's wasted meal, Ellen was forced to deal with it. She'd been avoiding too many issues for too long, using the excuse that Pete had just lost his father, that she was too tired or too busy. Or both.

There followed a brief lecture—brief because she really was tired and there was still Clyde and Booker and the fence to deal with. After a hug and a promise, Ellen sent Pete to his room with orders not to come downstairs again until he'd done his assigned reading and written the one-page essay for history. “That doesn't mean you can write three words on a line and call it a page,” she warned.

“Yes, ma'am.” Suitably chastised, the boy trudged upstairs, looking as if he'd lost his last friend.

“I'll be interested in reading it if you get through before my bedtime,” Storm called after him. “Your mama makes me go to bed early, though, so don't take too long.”

Pete smiled weakly at the joke.

“I'd better ride out before dark to see how far they got with the fence,” Ellen said.

“You stay, I'll go.”

“Not in my truck, you won't. You don't have a license, remember? Besides, you don't even know where to look.”

“Then I'll take one of the horses and you can tell me where to go.”

“One of us needs to stay here with Pete.”

“You stay. Or come with me if you insist. He's eight years old, Ellen. It's not like we're going to be out until all hours.”

“Eight years old is too young to be left alone. Besides, what do you know about children?” She knew she was irritable because she was worried and because she was tired. Knowing the cause, however, was no excuse for rudeness. Storm was only trying to be helpful.

If he truly wanted to be helpful, he would open his arms and let her hide in his embrace until she was ready to face what had to be faced.

Oh, for heaven's sake, Ellen, why not whine? she jeered silently. You're so darned good at it!

In the brief silence that followed Storm said, “About children? At the moment, not much.”

She had to think back to recall what she had asked. It was not only rude, it was insensitive. “Sorry.”

“No need. Look, if I thought Pete couldn't handle being alone for half an hour, I'd insist you stay here. What if you got into trouble? You could trip over a strand of wire and break a leg, then I'd be stuck here waiting for you to come back. I wouldn't know where to begin to look for you.”

“So now it's all about you and your comfort level.
Oh, for goodness' sake, come on, then. It won't take more than a few minutes to drive out and see how far they got.”

Neither of them spoke on the bumpy drive until Ellen said quietly, “I'm sorry, Storm. I'm being even bitchier than usual. It's been one of those days.”

He shifted slightly on the bench seat, trying to find a place where a spring didn't poke at his back. He had an idea about what was bothering her most, and it wasn't Pete. Nor was it the fence, which might or might not have been repaired.

It was her father. Whatever had happened between the two of them in the past, Storm suspected she'd told him only a small part of the story. Now, thanks to Sanders's showing up today to remind her of her filial obligation, her conscience was eating at her. He wished to God there was something he could do, but not only was it none of his business, he was in no position at the moment to do anything for anyone, other than the most menial of chores.

It hadn't rained since the day of the twister. A setting sun tinted the dusty air, lending the entire scene an aura of unreality. The air smelled of cattle, citrus fruit and pine trees, not an altogether unpleasant combination.

Ellen swerved into a small clearing just off the dirt road. “We'll pull over here. The broken section is…”

“Still broken,” he finished for her. They sat in the truck and stared through the dusty windshield at the broken strands of barbed wire and the leaning fence posts. Long moments passed in silence, then Ellen took a deep breath, opened the door and stepped down.

Storm followed suit, coming around to stand just behind her. His arms reached out instinctively, but at the last moment he hooked his thumbs into the belt loops
of his jeans. He had a feeling it wouldn't take much to break that brittle control of hers and that was the last thing she needed now.

On the other hand, maybe a good noisy cry was just what the doctor ordered.

Instead of crying, she used her soft, husky voice to express her thoughts, uttering words she probably hadn't learned in a girl's finishing school. “I'll kill those two miserable bastards, I swear I will. I'll wring their mangy necks until their ears fall off, then I'll fire their lazy, incompetent backsides.”

Hastily covering a grin, Storm said solemnly, “I couldn't have put it better myself. First, though, we have to find them.”

“Oh, they'll turn up eventually. Where else could they get even minimum wage for doing practically nothing? Friday was payday, so they won't come back until they've drunk up the last penny and slept off a monster hangover. It didn't take me long to catch on. Mondays are usually no-show. Even Tuesdays are iffy—one or the other might make it. From Wednesday 'till Friday afternoon, they get a few jobs done, and that's it. Then they're off on another binge.”

The tools were scattered on the ground. More for something to do with his hands than for any other reason, Storm rounded them up and tossed them into the back of the pickup. While he was at it, he tested one of the nearby posts to see how sound it was. The thing slowly toppled, dragging down three rows of rusty barbed wire.

Ellen closed her eyes. Her shoulders drooped. “He was right, I knew he was right. I just didn't want to admit it.”

“There's nothing we can do today,” Storm said.
“Those grapefruit trees on the other side of the fence aren't going anywhere over the next few hours.” At least the creeps hadn't stolen her tools.

They were both still standing beside the truck. “I'll drive,” he said gruffly, and it was an indication of her state of mind that she simply nodded. She made no move to get in. Neither did he. In the rapidly fading light, shadows played over her face, emphasizing her cheekbones and the clean line of her brow.

This was crazy, he told himself. His attraction to her. Ellen Wagner—single mother, small-time rancher, tough as old boots, dressed like an upscale scarecrow? So how come he kept picturing her in that old white bathrobe, smelling of shampoo and baby powder, her hair still damp from the shower, looking like every man's favorite's dream?

“I guess we'd better go,” he said before his libido overcame his better judgment.

“I guess so,” she whispered. It was the hint of a break in her voice that finished him off. Without a second thought, he caught her to him and held her, his face pressing against her hair.

“Ellen, Ellen,” he muttered, “What am I going to do about you?”

As the last streak of gold disappeared behind the deep purple clouds, a mourning dove began her soft threnody. Lust mutated into something less tangible, but equally powerful. Eyes closed, Storm allowed his senses to absorb the sounds of the evening, the fragrance of ripening grapefruit and the feel of woman in his arms—her delicate strength and the warm, sweet scent of her hair. He did his best to ignore his body's rising demands because sex was the last thing she needed now.

He only wished there was some way he could adsorb some of her weariness. How long could she go on this way? To what end? Was she fated to grow old trying to hang on to something for a son who might just as easily decide one day to study medicine or law, or maybe join the service like his father had done? There were no guarantees in life. He was a prime example of that fact.

“Let's get you back home, hon.” Unconsciously, he used the term of endearment he'd heard her use so often. “You need a good night's sleep.”

She sighed. Sighed, but didn't budge an inch. He could feel her breasts pressed against him, feel their soft resilience through the heavy wool shirt she wore. Embarrassed and uncomfortably aroused, he said gruffly, “Let's go.”

With a deep, shuddering breath, she turned toward the truck. “Don't look at me,” she warned, and so naturally, he looked. Looked and saw the shiny tear tracks wavering down her cheeks.

They rode in silence. He drove. Back at the house she said, “I'd better check things out here before I turn the lights off.” She headed for the barn, while Storm, not trusting himself to join her inside the hay-scented, shadow-filled interior, veered toward the house.

“I'll look in on Pete,” he said, waiting until she'd switched on the barn lights.

They'd been gone no more than half an hour. Everything looked the same as when they'd left, only darker. He let himself inside and headed upstairs, feeling the familiar comfort of the shabby old farmhouse close around him. He didn't know what he was used to, but he would willingly settle for this. Oh, yeah.

The kid was belly-down, sprawled in a four-point
position, the quilt dragging onto the floor. Storm took a moment to glance around, smiling at the boyish attempt at policing the area. About a week's worth of clothes was neatly heaped on a chair. Schoolbooks, a globe and a dictionary had been shoved to the very edge of the student desk to make room for another plastic F-18 Delta Wing, still under construction. Whether the homework in question had been finished or not remained to be seen.

He couldn't help but smile at an eight-year-old boy's version of housecleaning. Scrape a section of rug bare and pile everything up on the periphery. He had a feeling Ellen would let him get away with it only so long, and then she'd come down on him like a swarm of locusts. Oh, yeah, he knew about little boys.

Because he'd been one, or because he had one?

He didn't even know what to hope for. If he had a son of his own, he could help him with his model planes, tell him what it was like to sit in the cockpit, to see his gloved hand on the stick, to feel the thrust of all that harnessed power—

Standing stock-still, he waited for the picture to come into sharp focus. Instead, it faded out as quickly as it had appeared.

J. S. Harrison. Again he was struck by the coincidence surrounding the disappearance of a man named J. S. Harrison and the appearance of a man with no name, but with a handkerchief bearing two of the three initials. The name could be his—probably was, in fact—but until he could make it fit, there was no point in staking a claim. Especially when he kept having these vague feelings of some nebulous threat hanging over him.

After a moment he pulled the quilt up over Pete's
thin shoulders, ignoring the comic books that got covered up in the process, and tiptoed from the room.

By the time he reached the kitchen, Ellen had come in from the barn. “All secure?” he asked.

“All secure. Is Pete asleep yet?”

“Out like a light.” He toyed with a calico potholder shaped like a cow. “You know, I could almost swear I knew something about fighter jets.”

“Maybe you collected model planes as a boy.” She was reheating the coffee and getting out plates and forks.

“Not F-18s. At least I don't think so. But if I'm military, why wasn't I in uniform?”

“How do I know? Maybe you're an airline pilot. Maybe you opened the door at the wrong time and got sucked out of the plane.” She opened the freezer door and stared at the contents, not looking at him. “Hmm. Coconut cake from the freezer or store-bought apple pie?”

“Uh, either. Both?”

“In your dreams.”

He watched her neat movements. There was nothing at all seductive in the way she moved or the way she dressed. Yet just watching her was enough to make him forget all but the most basic urges. She had to have noticed. The jeans he was wearing were large, but not that large.

While she set about dividing the pie into even segments, he began to pace in a tight circle, forcing his mind back on track. “You know, it's these little things that keep driving me crazy. I let my guard down and first thing you know, here comes another glimmer. I try to grab hold, and it disappears, like trying to hold on to a handful of fog. I ask you, is that normal?” He
uttered a bark of laughter and answered his own question. “Oh, sure. Crazy is normal. Not being sure of your own name, that's normal. Sponging off a woman you never laid eyes on before in your life, that's perfectly normal.”

“Sit down.”

“Listen, the sooner I get those books and read up on—”

“Sit down and eat. The only thing you're doing now is stirring up dust and wearing out my vinyl floor.”

“Tell me again about the guys who came looking for me, Ellen.”

“I told you everything I know.”

“Tell me again. Something might click.”

“Then sit down and eat your dessert. With enough sugar in your bloodstream, maybe you won't go off on a rampage.”

“I never indulge in rampages,” he informed her, all injured dignity. But he sat, all the same. He picked up his fork, then put it back down. “At least I don't think I do. Describe this pair again. Maybe this time something will ring a bell.”

“All right, stop me when you've had enough. There were two of them, as I said before.” She took a deep breath. “It was late and I was tired. I think the term is stressed out.”

“Go on.” Storm tried to harness the frustration that was never far from the surface.

“You know how you keep getting these glimmers? These…I guess they're sort of like hunches?”

“We're talking about you now, not me and my glimmers.”