A Man for the Summer (12 page)

This time when she slipped out of her dress, she saw how he looked at her and she drank it in deeply. This time she wasn’t going to miss anything.

She worried that she was too pale, too thin, too flat, but then his hands were on her and his touch was needful and tender and she saw that everything was just right.

And then she unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt and he made short work of the rest. His trousers followed and he reached for her, but she stopped him with an upraised palm.

“Let me look,” she whispered hoarsely.

He did. He smiled indulgently, turned to the left and the right, and then saw how her eyes widened and her lips parted and he took her in his arms.

There had been a warning bell in his brain earlier, and he suspected this was wrong, but it was too late now. She made a little whimpering sound as he tugged the thick coil of her hair and exposed her long, pale neck, then trailed his lips along the sensitive skin.

He was ready this time, and he bent to enjoy her, to taste the freckled expanse from her throat down across her delicate collarbones and beyond.

Under his hands, his lips, Junior stirred, and made a noise that was pure enjoyment. It was half purr, half growl, and it made him hot. He wanted to hear it again.

He brushed a thumb against her nipple and got his wish.

Junior arched against him and slid her long legs slowly, sinuously into place, twined among his own, and hummed with pleasure. Griff’s blood pounded through his veins, the delicate friction of her body against him like silk, like melting butter.

“Junior,” he whispered. “This is, ah, different, this time.”

“Mmmmh,” she assented, then opened her eyes wide and smiled at him. “I’m actually all here to enjoy it this time. No first-date jitters, no bottle of champagne…”

And then she skimmed her fingers lightly down his back, down, down, and did something that made him forget all about the last time they’d made love.

“Wait,” he commanded hoarsely. “I’ll be right back.”

Reluctantly he pulled back from her and reached for the tangle of clothes on the floor. In his pants pocket he found the protection he was looking for and started ripping open the packet as he returned to her. The moonlight lit her body like a priceless statue, an artist’s tribute to a woman’s beauty, and he slid back next to her almost shaking with anticipation.

But her smile was gone.

“What are you doing,” she asked, her voice small.

Griff paused. “Protection,” he said.

“But…why? I mean, we already…”

There was hurt in her voice, and he hated it, wanted to comfort, to protect.

But he had to protect himself too.

“Junior.” He reached a hand to caress her face, but she didn’t respond to his touch, just kept looking at him, her eyes wide. “You know I don’t want to—I want to be safe.”

“But last night—”

“Last night I made a mistake. And I don’t want to compound it by making another one. I’m going to honor my responsibilities,” he added hastily as he saw the fire die in her eyes.

“I know,” Junior said softly, “You’re right, I don’t know what I was thinking. Here, let me help.”

And though her fingers were magic as they twined around him, the heat and the need were gone, and Griff stilled her. He took her hands in his and pressed them to his chest.

“Look,” he said. “If you’re not, if this isn’t—”

“Oh, no, I’m fine,” Junior said, and then she smiled, a lovely smile but with too much sadness around the edges, and the last of Griff’s pounding desire began to subside.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

It was true. He was sorry he’d ever stopped in Poplar Bluff, sorry he’d had that damn toothache, but most of all he was sorry that he’d ever put that sadness in her eyes.

It was Junior who pulled away, gently, gracefully, winding her long legs out from under him and somehow wrapping herself in the sheet so that she sat like a robe-draped goddess at the edge of the bed.

“Hey, these things happen,” she said brightly. “Better luck next time, right?”

Griff realized that she was waiting for him to go. He saw how tightly she clutched the white sheet, how the mask of cheerfulness had settled down on her face.

It tore at him. He didn’t want her to be the one in pain. He wanted to shoulder the whole burden, he wanted that happiness back in her eyes.

Even if it wasn’t him that put it there.

“I—I’ll go fix us some tea,” he said. He’d give her the solitude he wanted, even though he suspected she’d use the time to retreat further into herself.

“Oh. That sounds great.”

Griff hesitated at the door. “You were wonderful,” he said softly, but the words weren’t adequate for what he was feeling. “You
are
wonderful. This is all going to turn out—you’re going to get the happiness you deserve. You’ll see.”

But as he slipped away, he remembered that look of sadness etched on her face, and he wasn’t so sure.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Junior’s heart started beating a little faster as she reached the steps, and her feet slowed down. She paused and looked at her house.

It had been three days since Griff moved his things over, three days since that disastrous night of the party. Griff had been painfully polite.

And busy.

She could hear him at the computer when she woke up, and the empty coffeepot in the kitchen let her know he’d been up for a while. When she left in the mornings, he barely glanced up to say goodbye.

But early in the afternoon, he put his work on the book aside. She knew this because all of her neighbors made a point of bumping into her to tell her they heard her handsome boarder making all kinds of noise after lunch.

Pounding. Clanking. Things being moved around.

Today, it appeared, he’d fixed the front steps. Fresh wood supported the old, and Junior breathed deep of its piney smell. A good smell, and she smiled, briefly.

Yesterday he’d painted her mailbox, of all things. It had been peeling, and listing to the left, for as long as she could remember. He’d pounded it straight and shored up its supports.

And painted it periwinkle. With a yellow flag.

Junior smiled again, a little wider.

“What, like Junior Atkinson would have a black mailbox like everyone else?” he’d shrugged innocently.

That had been a good moment. She’d wanted to touch him, to hug him.

Hell, she’d wanted to rip his clothes off. Little smudges of paint on his strong forearms, on that dumb rayon shirt—something about the paint smudges made her want to get naked with him in the shower and slowly, painstakingly, scrub them away.

But most of the time they were just polite with each other. Griff left soon after she got home, offered to bring her something from the café. She declined. And though she made a point of being in the living room, showered, touched up, and pretending to read a book when he got back, he claimed exhaustion and went up to his room.

Not tonight.

Junior hefted the grocery sacks and resolutely pulled open the front door.

“I’m home!” she shouted.

And nearly tripped over him.

Griff looked up from the floor, where he was doing something to the outlet. She recognized most of the tools spread out on the floor, but the gizmo in his hand was definitely new.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Testing for current,” he said, turning his attention back to his work.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to get electrocuted. Because your fuse box looks like it was run by a third grader. Or rather, a series of them, and none of them consulted with any of the others.”

“Um.”

“And, because did you realize you had exposed wire hanging out of here?” His voice was gently exasperated, and at last he did look her full in the face. He rose, stretching his cramped limbs. “You could have set the whole place on fire, Junior.”

“I have a smoke alarm,” she said defensively.

“Huh. A lot of good it’s going to do you when the whole place goes up in flames at once. I’m fixing up a few of the bad ones, but you need some serious work done in here.”

He
sounded
serious. Stern.

She giggled.

She couldn’t help it. His hair was going the wrong way, and the patch that always looked so cool, so GQ, was standing pretty much straight up. And he’d finally given up on his expensive shirts and had taken one of her T-shirts from her drawer.

PowderPuff Football 2001, it read.

It was pink.

“You look…cute,” she said.

“This is serious, Junior,” Griff said, but his own face relaxed a little, and he set his tools down. “Just promise me you’ll call an electrician.”

“Okay, I’ll call an electrician. Although unless he’s willing to work for free, it’s going to be a short conversation.”

Griff’s shoulders lifted in exasperation. “How is it that you’re living hand to mouth when it seems like just about everyone I bump into says you’re working on their teeth?”

Junior was interested. “Like who? Who have you been talking to?”

Griff sighed. “Don’t change the subject. And, like, everyone. I get around, you know. Research.”

“Mmmm.”

They stood looking at each other for a moment, and Junior was certain that the deepening hunger in Griff’s eyes was the same as her own. Her need surged as it had a few times in the last few days.

The way he’d touched her that night—before she’d messed everything up—well, she had to have it again. Had to have him, at least once, before reality came crashing down and made all kinds of decisions for them.

She wasn’t about to think of that right now, though.

“I’m cooking,” she announced.

Griff smiled. “You sure that’s a good idea? Speaking of fire danger—”

“Hey, smartass, why don’t you haul yourself in here and help instead of flap-jawing. I’m actually a decent cook when I haven’t been putting away the champagne.”

He followed her into the kitchen and took her bags, unpacking them onto the counter.

“Huh,” he said, his voice teasing. “I guess I’m never going to know if you can cook or not, since it looks like you got somebody else to do the job already.”

Junior shrugged. “Hey, delegating is a skill, too.”

There was cold roast chicken, marinated grilled vegetables, crusty bread. There were lemon squares for dessert and a pretty good bottle of pinot gris. The best she could afford, anyway.

“So,” she said. “How about a picnic?”

Griff carried the food, the plates and glasses, out back. As he set them down on the picnic table, he turned to get her reaction.

He hadn’t been able to do much, but he’d pruned back the trees and shrubs and piled the cuttings out in the back. He needed a good week or two to get this yard into shape, but with some work, it could be incredible.

“Wow,” she said, looking around. “You’ve been a busy little bee.”

“Like it?”

“Are you kidding?” Junior reached a hand up to the lilac hedge, traced the groomed branches. “It’s like the damn Luxembourg gardens. How does a city boy learn how to do this?”

Griff shrugged. “My mother always had someone working on our garden. It was small, but—”

Perfect. It was perfect, like everything in his parents’ lives. On either side of the massive carved door to their townhouse, sculpted ivy topiary grew in Italian pots, no sprig allowed to grow an inch off course. And that was just the entrance. In back, exotic trees rubbed shoulders with rare flowers and carefully tended shrubs. Though large by city standards, the yard was small enough that it took clever maneuvering to fit his mother’s gazebo, the fountain, the arbors. The furniture was housed in the carriage house, and for her outdoor occasions his mother retained the gardener to set it up and take it down. She trusted no one else among the imported slate stepping stones, the pruned branches. No one, that is, except her son. Although Griff suspected that she rarely noticed Ricardo’s slender shadow.

“Your garden?” Junior prompted. “When you were growing up?”

Griff smiled. “Not so much the garden. It wasn’t really my taste. Very formal. But the gardener, Ricardo, well, he let me hang around with him a lot. Taught me a few things.”

Junior was eyeing him closely.

“That wouldn’t be most kids’ idea of a good time, I wouldn’t think.”

Griff blinked a couple of times, and Junior felt as though an invisible barrier had slipped between them. She had seen it a few times, enough to recognize the tightness around his lips, the slight narrowing of his eyes.

The way he didn’t meet her gaze.

“I guess I wasn’t most kids.”

“But what did you do for fun? Did you play any sports?”