The Talk of the Town (15 page)

But unable to lie to herself, Roxie admitted it wasn’t all. She felt more, far more, for him. She’d been attracted to him from the first, from the day he’d walked into her office—no, even before that, from the moment she’d seen him walking down Main Street on the day he had arrived. Her heart had pumped wildly, and she hadn’t been able to take her eyes off him. She had wondered even then what it would be like to touch the man behind the austere mask.

The more she came to know him, the more she wanted to know how he would feel beneath her caress, how he would taste upon her lips, how he would look in unrestrained passion. She often recalled the night she’d hurt her ankle, the warmth of his arms encircling her, the way his breath had stirred her hair, and she would ache with longing for more. Each time he touched her, each brief grazing of fingertips or light brush of his arm, deepened her hunger to know what comfort, what passion, what joy lay within the warmth of his embrace, within the heat of his kiss.

More often now, she saw an answering need within his darkening gaze, and with it she knew they were moving slowly, inexorably, irrevocably, beyond friendship.

For all that she was willing to be Luke’s friend, Roxie wasn’t ready to risk anything deeper. Her emotional scars were still painfully visible, too much so. Maybe later on she could take another chance on love, but not now, not yet. She had to back away while she still could, with her heart whole.

Her decision seemed preordained. She pleaded a blinding headache on Saturday morning as an excuse not to work the bake sale. She even missed church on Sunday, more because she was sick at heart than achy of head as she had claimed the day before.

By the time she returned to work and entered the lunchroom on Monday, Roxie felt as if this ending had been destined from the beginning. She had dressed for the occasion, wearing a drab navy-blue shirtwaist that she had dug out of the back of her closet and clipping her hair back off her face. Neither the dress nor the hairstyle really became her, but they gave her a protective aura of reserve. She wished she could as easily have donned a shield for her heart.

Luke waited for her at what had become their table. Unlike the cautious restraint that had marked his first greetings of her, he met her with an open cordiality marked by one of his charmingly lopsided smiles. Unable to confront the allure of his smile or the expectation in his eyes, she dropped her gaze to the floor. As he always did, he stood and pulled a chair out for her.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked.

His question startled her into looking up at him. “Feel—? Oh, yes, thank you. I just had a headache.”

“That’s what they told me at the bake sale,” he said, not seeming to notice that she remained standing.

“You did go to the sale then?”

“I bought the last half-dozen of your molasses cookies and brought one for each of us for dessert today.”

Gathering all her courage, Roxie delivered the speech she had rehearsed. “I’m sorry, Luke. I can’t stay for lunch. I’ve got a pile of work on my desk that I need to take care of.”

Luke felt his smile slowly melt away. Disappointment flooded him. These lunches had become the highlight of his day, his life. But acutely aware of the gaggle of gossipy coworkers who made up their audience, he managed a credible nonchalance. “Ah, well, tomorrow then.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t tomorrow either,” she said.

He took in the dreary dress, the dispassionate demeanor, and his heart began to thud sickeningly. Dear God, no, not this, anything but this. He’d been so careful, so damned careful not to expect more. But he was totally unprepared to receive less. He couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t believe it. He wouldn’t believe it.

“Maybe next week,” he tried.

“Maybe,” she agreed.

But they both knew the word had no meaning.

Chapter 8

Dirt smudged her cheek and forearm, and sweat dampened her back. Her hair was hidden under the scarf she’d tied atop her head, leaving the ends rabbit-eared. The beige of her cap-sleeved blouse had been bleached to an off-white, and the brown of her wide-legged slacks was faded to a drab dun. A passer-by might think she looked like a ragamuffin.

But Luke thought Roxie looked as cute as a button and sexy as all get-out.

He watched her from a distance, from beneath one of the large maple trees that lined the street and cast pretty patterns of light and shadow over all. He watched, and his whole being suffered the stirring torment of desire as she finished yanking weeds from the garden that flanked the front walk. She stood, picked up a large metal watering can and began pouring its contents on the pots of flowers that climbed the steps to the porch. He’d thought he wouldn’t want her so much, not now, not after the pain he’d endured. He’d thought he’d deadened every possible emotion he could conceivably feel for her.

But he’d been wrong. He wanted her more than ever before. He throbbed with the wanting. He wanted to touch her, to glide his hands over her curves, to press himself against her softness, to ease his aching within her. In all his life he’d never wanted a woman the way he wanted Roxie.

It went beyond wanting. He needed her. He needed her gentleness, her kindness, her sweet humor. It made him feel sick, this wanting and needing. He couldn’t have her. He could never have her. He hadn’t even been able to keep her as a friend. She had come to her senses.

And with a single “maybe” she’d crushed his spirit, as a lifetime with little affection or acceptance had not been able to do, as seven long years in prison had not been able to do.

He didn’t question why Roxie had brought such an abrupt end to their lunches, why she’d severed their growing friendship. He had no doubt why. She had finally realized what everyone else already knew, that he wasn’t the sort of man she should be encouraging, however innocently. He had to acknowledge that on his part it had never been so innocent. He’d wanted her friendship, yes, but even more he’d hungered for her as a man craves a woman. He’d filled every fantasy with her image and with every fantasy his desire had grown. In some way he must have revealed his true feelings and frightened her away.

The watering completed, she stretched, arching her back and tipping her head first to the right and then to the left, and his heart thumped violently. He forced himself to look elsewhere. A car backed out of a driveway down the street and turned toward uptown. He considered riding away as quietly as he’d arrived on the old motorcycle he’d recently purchased, but pride kept him from leaving. He’d come with a purpose and could not leave before he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do.

After dismounting, he plucked the jar he’d brought off the sidecar seat and crossed the street.

Even before she heard his footsteps coming up the walk, Roxie stood still, the empty watering can in her hand. With a prickling certainty, she felt his approach. She gulped in a breath, set the watering can down, and slowly pivoted on her heels.

“Hello, Roxie,” he said.

“Hello, Luke.” She shielded her eyes with a hand and watched him come up the walk.

His dark hair was tousled and seemed to absorb the sunlight that struck it. He had on an old blue chambray shirt that was missing the top buttons, exposing the tanned column of his throat and a fair portion of his chest, and he’d rolled the sleeves of it up to his elbows. The legs of his washed-out jeans ended at a pair of black boots she hadn’t seen him wear before.

He stopped just a few feet from her and stood stiffly, his face closed, his gaze remote. Her heart gave an odd little lurch. She lowered her hand, and they faced each other in an awkward silence.

“What brings you to this part of town?” she finally asked, sounding stilted.

“I’m not allowed in this part of town?” he countered.

“No, that wasn’t what I …” Flushing, she let her words trail off and dropped her gaze to the ground.

Luke silently swore. There was no sense trying to deny it. He had hoped for something else. He’d hoped for his own confident charm and her sweet smiles. He’d longed for a warm reception, not this wooden restraint. It was obvious she’d sooner receive heat stroke than him. He couldn’t deny his biting disappointment. He had wished for a miracle, but he should have known better. A childhood of wishing had brought him nothing but a manhood of emptiness.

Aimlessly kicking a small pebble with the toe of her oxford, Roxie chided herself. How could she sound so unwelcoming to him? How could she, when her heart was leaping with the joy of seeing him? Even if she didn’t want to get involved with him, she could at least be cordial. Simple courtesy demanded it. The pebble rolled into the green of the grass, and she returned her attention to him.

“Well, I’m glad you stopped by to say hello. It seems like I never get a chance to see you at work anymore.” She wondered if her statements sounded as false to him as they did to her.

Luke didn’t know which was worse, her lifeless reserve or this artificial congeniality. “It’s hard when we’re both so busy.”

“Yes, it is,” she agreed a little too quickly.

He was sorry he’d come. It had all been for a stupid, prideful gesture—and an even more imbecilic hope. He decided to save them both any further embarrassment and leave. “Well, I should get moving.”

She caught sight of the jar in his hand. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing, and he heartily cursed himself for bringing it, for coming here, for putting himself through all this pain. She was still staring at the jar. He had no choice now but to give it to her.

“It’s for you,” he said, thrusting it at her. “You never let me repay you for all the lunches you brought me. I thought this would clear the debt.”

Her mouth softened into a smile as she took the jar from him and studied its liquid amber contents. “Honey?”

“From my grandfather’s hives,” he confirmed. “I inherited three jars of it along with his Bible. You said once that you remembered how good his honey was on your mother’s biscuits, and I thought you might enjoy having some again.”

“Oh, I will,” she assured him.

“The jar is sealed with beeswax from the comb to help keep the honey from turning to sugar.”

Roxie smiled directly at him now, both hands curled around the glass. His gift had touched her deeply. Mainly because it meant he remembered her saying how much she liked his grandfather’s honey. But she was grateful for far more than the honey. She was glad, so glad just to see him again.

“Thank you, Luke, but you don’t owe me for those lunches,”

He shrugged, sending his shoulder muscles into play beneath the material of his shirt. “In any event, we’re even now, so I guess I’ll just—”

“You’ll come in for some lemonade to cool you off,” she interrupted. Simple courtesy be hanged. He was here, and she wanted him to stay.

Thinking nothing would cool him off around her, Luke looked away and caught a slight movement of the neighbor’s curtain that told him they were the objects of someone’s curiosity. “Is anyone home?”

“Me,” she said with a laugh.

“I meant anyone else.”

She shook her head. “Mother serves lunch at the county orphanage on Saturdays, so Dad usually meets my brothers for a bite at Sanders Café after he closes the bank.”

The curtains parted now and Luke saw a nose pressed against the neighbor’s window. “I probably shouldn’t come in if you’re here alone.”

Roxie finally understood when she followed the direction of his gaze. She scowled at the neighbor woman watching them out her window. Then her scowl turned into a smile as she waved him toward the front steps.

“Oh, come on,” she said, “let’s give that nosy old Mrs. Cutter something juicy to talk about.”

“Juicy?”

Roxie saw that his lidded gaze couldn’t conceal the wicked glint in his eyes. Flummoxed by that glint, she bent over and deadheaded a potted geranium.

“Okay,” he agreed, his lightness of tone relieving her discomfort. “Let’s do that.”

They walked up the steps to the porch. Her hands full, she paused, and he reached around her to open the door. Her pulse raced as memory sparked. They’d come this way before, but then she’d been in his arms, snuggled against his heart, the warmth and strength of him thrilling her as even the mere memory did. She knew a wish that he would remember, too.

Luke’s body pulsated as he remembered the night he’d entered with her in his arms. He could still smell her subtle rosewater scent, could still hear the soft catch in her breath when she tried to stand on her own, could still feel the bittersweet pleasure of her delicate curves held captive in his arms. The memory excited him, and he strove to forget.

Inside, the house was as clean and cool as he remembered it. She led him through the dining room into an immaculate kitchen, and he was filled with new longing. He wished he’d left when he’d had the chance. What the hell had prompted him to accept her invitation? What had prompted her to issue it?

Roxie fanned her face with her hands and blew straggling wisps of hair that had escaped the scarf off her brow. Luke’s handsome features were darkened by a sadness, and it wounded her to see it. More than anything else, she longed to see his smile, hear his husky laughter. She wanted to see the life return to his eyes. She could not let him leave looking like this.

“I’m glad you showed up,” she said, setting the jar he’d given her on the oilcloth-covered table and tossing the faded flower into the trash. “Not just because of the honey, though I can’t wait to try it, but because it’s too hot to be weeding today.”

Though she gave him an opportunity to speak, Luke said nothing. She raised her arms to her head and untied the scarf holding up her hair. It rippled free, and she shook it loosely about her shoulders. Then she took her time about finger-combing it off her face. Every moment was agonizingly delightful. Just being near her, inhaling her scent that today held a kick of garden green, watching the fluid beauty of her motions, listening to each breath she drew, pleasured him. But it was a painful pleasure, knowing it was the last time for him to be with her like this. He couldn’t allow himself to hope for more. Hope so often led to disappointment.