Upon a Mystic Tide (27 page)

John plunked Bess down
on the marbled countertop beside the bathroom sink. Her bottom stung nearly as much as
her knee. They were both soaked to the skin, though they’d stopped dripping somewhere between the mud room and the upstairs bath. Now, she was cold. Freezing in fact, and her blouse clinging to her skin had her nipples peaked, and the rest of her covered with goose bumps. She looked down at the ripped knee of her jeans and at the bright-red blood covering her knee cap. It wasn’t deep, just a scrape, but John acted as if she’d been shot.

“Don’t move.” Sliding her an I-mean-it look, he then started rifling through the cabinets. He tossed a box of cotton balls onto the counter near her hip then grabbed a brown bottle of peroxide from the shelf.

“Why are you acting as if this is such a big deal, Jonathan? It’s a scrape, for God’s sake.” She tossed her rain-soaked hair back from her face, sure she looked like something that crawled out from under a rock while he looked gorgeous. His hair, still dripping wet, splashed droplets of rain onto the soaked shirt molding to his chest like a second and third skin. It wasn’t right. Or fair. Even peeved at him, the sight of him left her breathless.

He wet a washcloth at the sink, then grimaced at her. “Lose the jeans.”

“Excuse me?” She had to have heard him wrong.

He leaned a hip against the counter, his stomach brushing her thigh. “Don’t give me a hard time, okay, Doc? I’m tired, grouchy as hell, and trying hard to absorb all this about Tony. I am
not
in
a good mood. And I am
not
interested in a debate. Now lose the pants.”

“I haven’t exactly been in paradise myself lately, you know? And I’m quite capable of cleaning my own scrape.” Fluttering her fingertips, she shooed him toward the door. “Why don’t you just go on and get some sleep and maybe you won’t be so—”

He kissed her quiet. His hand at her nape, under her hair, he pulled her closer, her shoulder pressing against his chest. Stunned, it took her a moment to recoup, then, clipping his shoulder, she pushed away. “Stop that, Jonathan. You can’t keep kissing me every time I say something you don’t want to hear. It’s absurd. Rid—”

He kissed her again. This time, planting himself against the counter between her thighs. One hand holding her head, his lips slanting over hers, he grasped her bottom and tugged her forward, until the vee of her thighs melted against his abdomen. His body heat radiated through their clothes and stole her chills. She opened her mouth to protest his kiss and instead found his tongue searching for hers, then mingling, mating. A delicious shiver coursed through her, heating her blood, setting it to pounding through her veins. And long before she was ready to end this kiss, he lifted his head.

Her face burning, she stared at him and twisted her mouth to verbally let him have it right between the eyes.

He quirked a brow at her.

Knowing the penalty for uttering so much as a single syllable, she fumed with a gaping jaw
 . . .
and said nothing. Her time would come. And when it did, then he’d regret this macho manure.

“Are you ready to play nice now and ditch the jeans?”

Arrogant pig. The time was now. She steeled herself for the onslaught. “I’ll handle this myself. I thought I already told you that. In fact, I’m sure I did. Between the first and second kisses you stole, I think. Or was it the second and third?” She gave him a saccharine-sweet smile. “Hmmm, I can’t seem to—”

He kissed her yet again. And this time she was ready for him. When he slipped between her thighs, she curled her legs around him, wound her arms around his neck, too, and threaded her fingers through his hair. He’d always loved that. Especially right
 . . .
there at his nape, just beneath the soft hollow behind his ear. Yes, oh, yes. He was going to leave this kiss far differently than he had left the others.

She pressed a fingertip to his chin. He relaxed his jaw and she slipped her tongue inside his mouth, eased past lips and teeth, and found his warm tongue. She teased and taunted—and waited. When that telltale groan vibrated low in the back of his throat and the bulk of him pressed hard at her thighs, she knew she’d achieved her goal. Yet, far from satisfied herself, she lingered, kissing him a little longer, a little deeper, stealing a little more of the magic.

His response was immediate and enthusiastic. He flattened his hand on her belly and rubbed, stroked, and caressed, kneading his fingertips against her skin along the inside of her waistband. He lifted her from the counter, held her up and tightly to him. Dazed, mesmerized, she gave herself to the kiss, vowing never again would she set out to teach her husband a lesson that didn’t involve touching him. Learning never had been so pleasant for teacher or student.

He drew back, nibbled a trail of kisses down her throat to the upper swell of her breasts. His hot breath warmed her through the wet silk. Trembling, she nuzzled his neck.

“Bess?”

“Hmmm.”

“We’d better stop this.”

She nipped at his earlobe. Lord, he tasted sweet and smelled heavenly.
Obsession
and rain and warm man. “Uh-huh.” Sounds were infinitely easier to manage than words.

He laved the hollow of her throat with his tongue. “I need to see to your knee.”

Her knee? Oh, yes. Yes, her knee. She tried to clear her thoughts, but it was useless. In his arms, she staggered, lost in a sensual fog so thick and deep and dense she couldn’t gather a thought to clear. “I need
 . . .
”

“Me.” John plunked her back down onto the counter.

Bess swayed. Her bottom was cold. She looked down. Her legs were bare and her panties mocking her. Where were—? She looked down. Her jeans lay in a puddle on the floor. “Good grief. You did that without me even knowing it.”

He grinned like the precocious, arrogant pig, slug-lover he was. “You were busy.” A cotton ball in hand, he tipped the opening of the peroxide bottle against it, then slapped the bottle down, and the cotton ball to her knee.

It stung like fire. “Ouch!” She stared at the little
Occupied
sign on the counter next to the toothbrush holder and seriously considered whacking him in the head with it.

“Be still, honey.” He gentled his touch. “It’ll be over before you know it.”

Honey.
Good grief. She couldn’t very well whack a man calling her
honey.
“Hurry.”

He glanced up, the devil dancing in his eyes. “Impatient to kill me, eh?”

She grunted. “Something like that.”

Not looking at all worried, he tossed the cotton ball into the trash. “Do you want to shower with me first?”

“First?” A jolt of anticipation sneaked past her outrage and streaked to her core. She stared at the antique-brass soap dish and willed desire away. “I don’t think so, Jonathan. I think first I’d like to sock you in the nose.”

“Not exactly romantic, Doc, but if it’ll get me another kiss like the last one
 . . .
”

“Forget it.” She scooted off the counter. Her knee locked up and she stumbled against him.

He lifted her into his arms and headed for the door. “I agree. We’ll wait on the shower until
 . . .
later.”

“Jonathan!” she shrieked. She hadn’t meant to shriek, of course, but, damn the man, he confused the heck out of her. First he wanted her, then he didn’t, then he did again—though not for as long. And when she tried teaching him a lesson about kissing her quiet, she ended up tricked right out of her pants. How in the world he’d done that, she’d no idea. But he had done it and
 . . .
well, whatever. She was just too weary of worries to worry about anything anymore. What harm was there in one little shriek, anyway? At this point, she’d
welcome
a month of silence.

Letting her head rest against John’s shoulder, she focused on the books in the hand-carved shelves at the end of the hall. He was taking her back to her room. That was fine. She’d change her clothes, crawl into bed—without him;
definitely,
without him—then pull the covers up over her head. She’d said she was going to do that before and not come out until the world was civilized again. Well, she hadn’t done it then. If she had, she wouldn’t be in this mess. Another lesson learned:
Follow your instincts.

John set her down beside the bed, then caressed her with his gaze. His wet jeans clung to his hips and muscular thighs, and his arousal certainly was no secret. That she wanted him, too, unfortunately, wasn’t either. Memories of them together stirred and churned in her, sent heat swarming to her belly. She tightened her muscles against it. “I’m not going to bed with you.”

“I know.” He stared at her mouth.

“I mean it, Jonathan.”

“I know you do.”

His easy agreement had her even more jittery. “People who are divorcing don’t sleep together.”

He looked into her eyes. “We have.”

“We have not.” Lord, what an imagination.

John rubbed at his neck, then at his jaw. “I could have sworn I woke up this morning with a woman I thought was you on top of me.” He pointed to the curve of his neck. “Her mouth was right here.”

Bess wished the floor would open up and suck her down. But, like everything else, it wasn’t cooperating. Now why didn’t that surprise her? “I meant, we’re not having sex.”

“Good.” He grabbed her by the waist. “I always preferred making love with you, Bess. And I have to say that, when I brought up the settlement proposal, I was a little ticked at your wanting to just have sex.” His eyes twinkled knowingly. “Not nearly as . . . fulfilling as making love.”

Flustered, she slapped at his hands and backed up a step. “I meant that we wouldn’t be doing either, Jonathan, and you know it.” A saint didn’t have the patience needed to deal with this man.

“Oh.” He stilled, nodded, and then turned for the door. “Well, I guess we can talk about Tony, then.”

From one mine field to another. Lord, spare her—and heal her mind. It had to be sick or she wouldn’t be feeling so disappointed that John’s grand desire had stopped as quickly as a hot-air valve snapped shut. “I’d rather not.”

“I’d rather not either, Bess, but the fact is we’re caught up in some kind of mystical situation here. We have to accept it.”

“Please, don’t say it. Tony’s just
 . . .
Tony. He’s a telepath with psychic insights. That’s all.” She hated the begging plea in her voice, the rationalization in her thinking, but she just couldn’t take any more mental assaults right now. She just couldn’t.

“Bess—”

“Please,
Jonathan.
Please,
don’t say that godawful ‘G’ word.
Please.”

“He’s a ghost, darling.”

She covered her ears, turned, then crawled onto the bed, setting her sore knee to aching. “I’m not listening. I won’t listen to this.”

“You’re not acting very doctorly.” John stepped toward her.

Bess held up a hand to keep him away. “No, I’m not. But I’m not feeling very doctorly either. I’m feeling a lot of things—I have ever since Tony’s first call—but I haven’t once felt doctorly.” She licked at her lips, her mouth as dry as sawdust. Admitting that hadn’t been nearly as hard as she’d expected it would be, but what she really wanted—needed—was a few minutes alone to collect her composure. And, if her husband had an ounce of compassion in his huge body, he’d give her the time. “Why don’t you go dry off and then we’ll talk?”

He studied her, as if running a sincerity check. Well, she was sincere, so let him assess to his heart’s content. She
would
talk to him—later. But first she had to have a good talk with herself. Her emotions were rioting, and rioting emotions and John Mystic made for an explosive situation. A few minutes alone and she’d regain control.

“All right, Bess.” He moved to the door then stopped, one hand on the knob. “But as far as I’m concerned, this thing with Tony is settled. He is what he is, just as we are what we are. If he meant to hurt us, we’d be hurt. Remember that, okay? And you might also remember that you have a lot more to fear in refusing my proposal than you do in talking to a ghost.”