The Rebel and His Bride (7 page)

“Has that been a problem here? Getting young adults to stay in White Creek, instead of moving to a big city?”

“When I first took over the church here, there seemed to be a mass exodus of anyone between the ages of eighteen and forty, but things are getting better. We’ve got Danni and Sebastian, Buddy Wilson has decided to stay on and help his father with the Food Mart, Magda’s daughter, Caterina, has opened up a children’s clothing shop, Lem Petrie’s youngest son and his wife have just moved back, and there are others too.”

“I’d guess that a lot of people, once they get married and begin thinking about raising a family, move back to small towns, where drug and gang problems are just about nonexistent, and if your kid tries to sneak a cigarette, everyone in town knows.”

Gregory studied her. “Have you thought about living in White Creek while you’re teaching in Norfolk? It’s only forty minutes driving time.”

“An hour if the traffic’s bad.”

“At least the only traffic you’d ever have to worry about is in Norfolk. The last time we had a traffic jam around here was when Joel Harrison’s tractor stalled in front of the hardware store and the few cars caught behind him simply drove up on the sidewalk to get around.”

Annabelle smiled slightly. “I’ve thought about staying here. I mean, I know Danni’s going to appreciate all the help she can get once she has the twins, particularly since she intends to keep up her part of the veterinary practice. And Gran’s not getting any younger, though you’d never know it by her ridiculous shenanigans on Lute’s motorcycle.”

“Maybe that’s the best reason for staying. Your grandmother needs a stable influence in her life. God only knows what she’ll get into next. Maybe a tattoo to go with her leather jacket.”

“Nothing would surprise me where she’s concerned.” Annabelle rolled her eyes. “Whatever happened to sweet little old silver-haired grandmas who baked cookies and sang in the church choir?
Danni and I have got to be the only two people in the world to have a biker granny.” She sounded irritated, but the twinkle in her eyes said she was more proud than ashamed of her unconventional relative.

Gregory smiled at her unconditional love for her sometimes aggravating, sometimes mischievous, always well-meaning grandmother. “I guess most everybody has one relative or another who’s strange. I was the strange one in my family.”

“What do you mean?” Annabelle asked.

“I was the only one not aiming for some high-powered career that would rake in the big bucks. One sister is a bank president, the other a corporate attorney. My brother’s a doctor. And, of course, Dad and Mom are co-owners of their own software company. They expected me to follow in everyone else’s footsteps. They didn’t understand years ago when I decided to become a marine biologist. They understood even less when I dropped that and went into the ministry instead.”

Annabelle wandered over to the first pew and sat in the corner, stretching her legs out and slipping off her shoes. “So why did you? I mean, you’d always been dead set on getting a job with Greenpeace. I remember when you talked to that guy who worked onboard their ship,
The Rainbow Warrior
, and you’d pretty well decided that’s what you wanted to do. Awfully big step from saving whales to saving souls.”

Gregory sat next to her. Though he was a respectable
distance away, Annabelle found herself feeling crowded by his nearness. The sudden desire for flight again swept over her, but she wanted to hear what he had to say more than she wanted to leave.

“I don’t know if I can explain it any better to you than I did to my parents, Annabelle. One morning I woke up and it suddenly occurred to me that all the problems plaguing the environment, all the animal abuse, all the new weapons being developed, were just symptoms of a much bigger problem.”

“Which is …?”

“We’ve lost hope, we’ve lost compassion.” He shook his head. “We’ve lost faith.”

“And so you felt the call to try to restore some of that lost faith.”

“Very strongly. Do you understand?”

Her eyes narrowed in thought, then she said slowly, “You know, I think I do. That’s one of the reasons teaching means so much to me. Because most kids haven’t lost their way yet and maybe all they need is someone to help them find a joy for learning. That’s a joy they’ll never lose.”

Gregory nodded in understanding, and for a moment she felt in tune with him. Just like she used to. Simpatico, their friends had called them.

“So our goals aren’t so terribly different, are they?” he said. “I’m out to save souls, you’re looking to save minds.”

“All we need is your brother the doctor to save
their bodies and we’ll have all the bases covered.” Annabelle laughed.

Gregory joined in and, somehow, in the warmth of shared laughter, their hands touched, their fingers tangled. Annabelle’s laughter died as abruptly as if someone had pulled a plug, and she couldn’t keep her gaze from lighting on their joined hands.

Gregory turned her hand over and ran his thumb across the slight pink patch that was all that remained of her burn. He raised her hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the palm. His breath warm against her skin, he murmured, “The burn seems better,” then looked startled, as if the husky sound of his voice had surprised him.

“It is.” Annabelle tried to retrieve her hand, but he curled his fingers around hers. It surprised her how natural it was to nestle her hand in his. How many times had they walked across campus hand in hand? How many evenings had they spent holding hands across a table in the library? And how many nights had he clasped her hands over her head, their fingers entwined, as he made passionate love to her?

Gregory released her hand, but only to slide his hand up her arm to her elbow, cupping it for a moment, before continuing his journey to her shoulder. Despite the temperature, which remained in the eighties, gooseflesh appeared on her arms. His fingers curled into her shoulder, then slid around to the back of her neck. He toyed with
the tiny curls escaping from her ponytail, winding them around his fingers.

Without thinking, Annabelle ran her tongue over her lips, and saw Gregory fasten his gaze there. He was going to kiss her, she thought with certainty. She couldn’t let him kiss her. It would dredge up too many old feelings, feelings that should stay buried. But a delicious lethargy overtook her and she couldn’t seem to drum up the energy to move away from him.

He brought up his other hand to cup her face, his thumb tracing her lips. If he had tried to kiss her right then, she could have resisted. But he didn’t. When she felt his fingers tracing the shape of her ear, she knew he didn’t intend to play fair. No, his plan was insidious. He was going to seduce a kiss from her. And the way he was going about it, he’d get it too.

His fingers lingered on her ear, then trailed slowly down her neck to the small hollow at the base of her throat where an out-of-control pulse fluttered. His fingertips drew little circles there before moving up to her cheek. His touch was deliberate and impetuous, demanding and giving, innocent and passionate.

His head lowered toward hers, but he bypassed her lips in favor of her forehead, her nose, her eyelids. Each kiss was the barest touch, hardly more than the brush of butterfly wings, but it still seemed as if each had the jolt of a thousand volts of electricity.

“I’ve missed you.” The words were so soft, she wasn’t sure whether she’d really heard them or merely felt them. When Gregory’s lips covered hers a moment later, she no longer cared whether the words came from him—or her. And, still, the only parts of them that touched were their clasped hands, the barest caress of his other hand on her face, and their lips. It was, at one and the same time, far too much and not nearly enough.

Even though she knew it would only complicate her already bewildering feelings for Gregory, she couldn’t stop her free hand from sliding behind his head and holding him to her. With a jerky move that showed more need than finesse, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. He slid his tongue along hers, stroking and teasing. Slick, hot, talented.

Gregory had always approached kissing like a sculptor approached a lump of clay, she thought hazily. He had molded each kiss, shaped it, made it his. Oh yes, when it came to kissing he used to be good. Now he was better. She could feel desire curling in her middle, spiraling outward, reaching its molten fingers to tickle every nerve ending.

She was terrified. Terrified he’d stop kissing her. Terrified he’d continue to kiss her. Deep inside, she knew this wasn’t a good idea, but she felt powerless to do anything about it. Powerless against the irresistible force of his lips, his arms. She could only weave her fingers through his hair, open her mouth wider to his, melt fully against
him. He kissed her as though he were the world’s thirstiest man drinking from a cool clear spring. He kissed her as though he’d never get enough.

Her thoughts became fragmented, disjointed. So long, she mused. It had been so long. Her breasts fit against his chest just right, his arms held her just right. No one had ever made her feel the way he had. Her breasts were full and swollen, aching for his touch. She pressed even closer to him, wordlessly, mindlessly.

His hands slid down her shoulders and slipped just beneath the edge of her crop top, his fingers splaying over the bare skin of her back. He’d always been so in tune with her, known just what she needed, wanted, when they made love. And so he knew now. As if he’d read her mind, he moved his hands around to cup her breasts in their lacy covering, his thumbs unerringly finding her rapidly hardening nipples.

She gasped and braced her hands against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat. It thumped hard and fast against her hands. As hard and fast as her own. She could feel the desire that bunched his muscles beneath his shirt, the same desire that whirled through her. She could feel the ragged breaths he drew in as he continued to cradle her breasts in his hands—ragged breaths that she echoed at his touch. And she could feel the sudden deep breath he drew in as he slowly, reluctantly, removed his hands from beneath her shirt.

He pressed one more kiss to her lips, a soft,
sweet kiss, then ran his hands over her shoulders and gently set her away from him. Annabelle couldn’t think of anything to say. Apparently he couldn’t either, because he just looked at her, searching her face as if looking for the answer to something, to some question only he knew.

“Annabelle—”

She didn’t want to hear what he had to say, didn’t want to stay there any longer. It wasn’t safe for her to be around him. What had happened just a minute before was proof of that. “I’ve got to go.” She jumped to her feet, ran a shaky hand over her hair, and all but ran down the aisle. She paused long enough to grab her purse from the pew where she’d left it and cast one glance back at Gregory. He stood motionless, watching her as though he wasn’t surprised at her flight. Without another word, she turned and left.

Gregory gazed after her, long after he’d heard her car pull away. He’d almost gotten the question out that time, would have had she not fled. Frustration joined the heady arousal still humming along his nerve endings, finally replacing it altogether. She was always running away from him. Just as she had nine years ago.

Dammit! He held on to his anger long enough to stride down the aisle of the church and out the door, securing it behind him. When he got into his car, he slammed the door with a satisfying thud, then clenched his fists on the steering wheel. He
muttered a quick prayer of apology, then swore violently.

He swore for several minutes straight, long and hard and savagely, though he managed not to take the Lord’s name in vain even once. When his anger was spent, he said another prayer apologizing for his lack of self-control. Still he had to admit there seemed to be times when only swearing could adequately express one’s feelings—especially when those feelings had to do with Annabelle. Since God had created both man and woman, Gregory had to believe He would surely understand.

He turned the key in the ignition and headed home, wondering if Adam had ever felt this way about Eve. Had he ever had the desire not to just taste the fruit she offered, but to throw it at her?

Annabelle woke the next morning bleary-eyed and cross. She also had a crick in her neck from spending most of the night with her head hanging off the bed. At least she assumed that was why her neck hurt—particularly when she met the unblinking gaze of the cat who lay purring on her pillow. Annabelle gave a long-suffering sigh.

This had all the earmarks of a miserable summer. Between a weird cat, a heat wave, and a sinfully sexy minister—who probably had something to do with the heat wave—she was sure she’d be crazy by August. What had possessed her to tell Gran she would stay in White Creek through the summer, rather than just until Gran’s cast came off? Sure, she was considering moving back to White Creek for good, and this was an excellent way to find out if the place still suited her. But she was afraid she’d never be able to survive being
around Gregory, at least not with her sanity intact. And her heart.

Not only did she still find him desirable, she found him more desirable than she ever had. The man he’d become appealed to the woman she’d become. The icing on the cake was that she
liked
him. She really liked all the new things she was learning about him.

That kiss last night, though, had ruined everything. She’d been able to spend the past couple of weeks on a casually friendly basis with him, carefully glossing over the deeper emotions that ran inside. Their kiss had kicked the facade away and exposed all the raw need and old hurt that still lay beneath.

She spent the morning at home. It felt safer. She did a little housework and helped her grandmother bathe Marigold, her pet pig, in the inflatable wading pool in the backyard.

“So how’s the work on the play going?” Virgie asked as she reached for the brush she used to scrub Marigold.

“Gran, I’ll do that. You just watch and keep that cast dry.”

“Marigold likes to be scrubbed a certain way, honey,” Virgie said, though she relinquished the brush. “Use small circles and a firm, but gentle pressure. And work up a good lather. She likes lots of suds.” She patted the pig on the head. “Did you see the preacher at church last night?”