A Promise to Cherish (17 page)

“Are you saying you want to take it a little slower next time?”

“Next time?” She reached up and playfully yanked a handful of his hair. “You certainly take a lot for granted.”

“Oh, do I now?” He rolled her on top of him and settled her along his length, then ran his hands down her spine until his fingertips touched a part of her that disproved her words. And when they’d shared another ripple of mirth, he wrapped his arms around her securely and kissed her cheek.

“Cherokee, you’re all woman, and you’re more than enough to suit me. Mind if I hang around for a while?”

“Mmm . . . how long did you have in mind?”

“Oh . . . till morning, anyway.” She heard the grin in his words, which brought a corresponding smile to her own lips.

But though she smiled and teased, “That long, huh?” the thought of morning was something to be reckoned with. Morning, with its bright revealing sun. She nudged the thought away, nestling against him, wanting him beside her throughout the night.

Morning would take care of itself.

L
EE watched dawn creep into the bedroom, all coral and cozy, illuminating their two bodies beneath strewn sheets, she on her belly, Sam on his back. Her eyes followed the brown and white cat that padded into the room, stopped beside the window where it lifted its nose to sniff the cool morning air, puffing the draperies gently from the sill, tapping the plastic bell on the end of the pull. Nose to the air, the cat stood for long minutes, then bounded onto the bed, landing in a most unfortunate spot.

Sam came up like a jack-in-the-box, uttering a sharp cry of surprise followed by an expletive. The cat went flying through the air like a missile as Lee braced up on both palms to observe Sam tenderly massaging his abused parts through the sheets.

She fell onto her belly again, chuckling into the pillow. “What’s the matter? Was I too hard on you last night?”

“What the hell was that!”

“That was my cat, P. Ewing.”

“Ohhh,” he groaned. “I thought the bed was booby-trapped.”

She laughed silently, hugged the pillow beneath one cheek, and peered up at him. “Can I help?”

He turned his head, all tousled and dark, and amusement curved his lips. “Your damn cat just . . . just pickled my mushrooms, woman, and you lie there making jokes?” It appeared he’d forgotten his discomforts now. He folded his arms behind his head and closed his eyes. “Don’t talk to me, I’m pouting.” But the corners of his lips twitched.

Lee studied him at leisure, noting that his beard had grown overnight, that his chest was wide and dark, that his nipples were the color of rosebuds. Pleasure came wafting over her at waking to the sight of such a man in her bed. He was as handsome as he was entertaining, and she let her eyes linger on his lips, brows, and eyelashes. She reached out and ran the tip of a fingernail just inside the rim of his nostril.

“Oh, Bro-o-w-wn?” she sing-songed seductively, going up and down the scale.

His nose twitched, but his eyes remained closed.

“Oh, Brow-w-wn . . .” she crooned again, tickling the edge of his other nostril. He wriggled his nose, then rubbed it distractedly before crossing his arms behind his head as before, with eyes still closed. She shimmied over beside him, propped her bare breasts coquettishly on his chest, and rested her chin on crossed wrists.

“Hey, Brown, you were right, this bed is booby-trapped. Wanna see?”

His chest shook silently, but he lay as before.

“Hmm?” she teased.

“Naw.”

She snickered, unable to keep a straight face any longer. He opened one eye and looked down his nose at her.

“But I’ve got something here you might be interested in witnessing,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“A genuine Indian uprising.”

They were dissolved by paroxysms of laughter then, even as his powerful arms closed around her and flipped her over. They shared a first good morning kiss, but before it ended the laughter had faded away. Lee held his face in both hands and said in a husky tone, “Oh, Brown, you’re so good for me.”

His ebony eyes ran over her face, touching her lips, nose, and tousled hair before meeting her own eyes.

“Lee,” he requested in a strangely quiet way, “I’d like to hear you call me by my first name . . . just once.”

She placed her palms in a light caress along his cheeks, then studied his face, feature by feature. It was a strong, compelling face, holding the color of the sun and his heritage in its copper tone. Her fingertips rested just beside his black-lashed eyes, which were as splendid in this new seriousness as ever they were when laughing. His cheekbones were high, his nose straight. She rested her thumbs on his full lips and brushed the soft skin lightly.

In the gentlest of voices she said his name. “Sam . . . Sam . . . Sam . . . I want you inside me again, Sam. You feel so good there.” She drew his face down to hers, her mouth opening to receive his kiss as he moved over her, fitting his hips to hers, his firmness to her pliancy. Her eyes closed as his flesh stroked within hers—long, ardent strokes that took her back to that plane of rapture they’d shared more than once the night before.

“Open your eyes, Lee.”

She opened them, losing herself in his brown, probing gaze that hovered just above her as their bodies blended rhythmically together. They watched each other’s faces mirror what was happening inside as they moved closer to glory, reveling in not only what they took but also in what they gave.

As Lee witnessed a parade of feelings cross Sam’s face, she found new meaning in the act, and realized with utter certainty that it was not one into which he had entered lightly.

When it was over and her hands had brushed away the sheen of moisture from Sam’s back, she gathered him close, wondering if he would understand that what she’d just experienced seemed a blending of spirits as well as of bodies. Holding him tightly, she whispered against his neck, “Oh, we are good together, aren’t we, Sam?”

“Yes we are, Cherokee. I told you that last night.” He braced his elbows on either side of her, and his thumbs smoothed her hairline, and once again they assessed each other, but looking deeper now.

“I’m glad it wasn’t just me,” she began. “I mean . . . I needed this very badly and I thought maybe that’s why it was . . . exceptional.”

He smiled and kissed the side of her nose. “No, it wasn’t just you. It was exceptional for me too.”

Her heart seemed to soar. “Was it really? You’re not just saying that to be gallant?”

“Shall I stick around and convince you of that too?”

“Oh yes, Your Honor, please do.”

And he did. They spent the weekend together, laughing and loving and learning about each other. And she came to know Sam Brown as a man of many facets.

That morning he insisted that she join him on an early run and produced from the trunk of his car a tote bag containing the same jogging clothes she’d seen once before. When she argued that it was Saturday, she had to clean the house, he said he’d help her when they got back. When she argued that she was out of shape, he said running would get her in shape—though he wasn’t complaining. When she argued that it was hot, he said he’d cool her off.

They put on their sweatbands and headed out.

After a quarter of a mile Lee was lagging and panting. After half a mile her muscles burned. After that she tried to put her misery out of her mind, realizing what self-discipline it took to exercise like this every day. Her head hung. Her legs felt like deflated inner tubes. She followed Sam blindly, trailing doggedly at his heels and watching the slap of her feet . . .

He led her smack through the lawn sprinklers of Turner Golf Course!

She shrieked and threw her arms up over her head as the icy water brought her to a halt. “Brown, you’re crazy!”

Still jogging, he turned to look at her over his shoulder. “I told you I’d cool you off,” he called, then continued unceremoniously through the line of sprinklers. What could she do but laugh and follow?

When they returned home, he was the essence of solicitousness, laying her out on her stomach on the living room floor, then massaging her weary muscles with expert hands and soothing care. With her eyes closed and her cheek pressed against her crossed hands, she moaned, “Oh, Brown, how could you put me through that?”

“It’ll keep you from getting fat and decadent,” he replied cheerily, then completed her rubdown but refused to let her bask on the floor any longer. With a sharp slap on the rump, he ordered, “You have to keep moving or those muscles will tighten up.”

With a groan she dragged herself up off the floor only to be hauled toward the shower. Without a flicker of embarrassment he joined her, and though it started out with Lee insisting she couldn’t stand up for another minute, it ended with her soap-slicked body pressed flat against the cold ceramic tile and one knee hooked over Sam Brown’s arm.

Afterward he made her breakfast, an ungodly concoction he called a Chinese omelette, declaring he had a passion for bean sprouts and water chestnuts. It was delicious after all, and the first meal a man had ever prepared for Lee. While they lounged at the table over cups of tea, Sam tipped his chair back on two legs, stretched a long arm toward the telephone on the counter behind him, called his mother, keeping his eyes on Lee all the time.

“Thought you might be worried,” was the gist of his message.

When he’d hung up, he explained without compunction, “We don’t interfere in each other’s lives, but we share the same house. She’d do the same for me if she planned to be gone for an entire weekend.”

And again, Lee looked at Sam in a new light.

There followed yet another surprise, for he was as good as his word and helped her with the house cleaning, showing an amazing lack of macho ego as he pushed the vacuum cleaner and emptied garbage cans. Joel had considered it “woman’s work” and had never helped her with domestic tasks. Yet watching Sam Brown performing them now seemed to add to his masculinity rather than detract from it. She promised him a reward for his help and fulfilled that promise on the long sofa in the newly cleaned living room.

In the afternoon she remembered she’d made an appointment at the garage to have the oil changed in the Pinto. “Why not do it in the company shop and save yourself some money?” Sam suggested.

“Who, me?” she asked, surprised.

“Why not? The shop’s got a hoist and any tools you need. Most of the guys who work for me take advantage of it. I don’t mind.”

“But . . .”

He leaned against the counter, crossed his arms, and cocked a dark eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’re going to say, ‘But I’m a woman.’ Not after I just finished your vacuuming.”

He had her there. She bit her tongue.

“I’ll show you how, if you want me to. It’s not hard,” he offered.

And so Lee found herself doing the last thing in the world she’d ever have thought she’d do with Sam Brown—learning to buy the right size oil filter, the right weight oil; removing a drain plug, applying an oil-filter wrench, replacing the filter, then the plug, and finally the oil, and saving herself a considerable amount of money. And all at the suggestion of a man she’d once called rich and decadent.

But best of all, she’d earned Sam’s respect, for as they headed back to her house, she knew he was pleased at the pluckiness she’d shown in her first attempt at auto maintenance.

They were scrubbing their hands at the bathroom sink when she looked up to find his approving eyes on her in the mirror. This time it was
he
who promised
her
a reward for her bravery, though he added with a charming grin that it would be the first time he’d ever made love to a mechanic.

While he went out to pick up a pizza, the “mechanic” prepared a homecoming.

Sam returned to a sight that stopped him dead in his tracks just inside the door. Lee posed at the far end of the hall haloed by the golden sunset coming through the patio door behind her. Her feet were bare. Her hair was loose. There were feathers in her ears and a white band around her forehead. Her palms rested on the walls above and beside her head while she slung her weight on one hip and the opposite thigh jutted forward. She wore nothing but a supple suede vest made up chiefly of swinging fringe. Several strands rode between her legs at the dark triangle of hair.

“Cherokee . . .” Sam breathed.

“Just so you don’t get too used to me in a grease pit with a wrench in my hand.”

“Come here, Cherokee,” he said huskily.

They ate cold pizza.

 

 

A
T three o’clock in the morning Lee awakened with a charley horse in her leg and sprang up in pain. Sam was immediately at the foot of the bed, taking her calf in his hands and working the heel to ease the cramping muscles until the spasms passed.

“Better now, sweetheart?”

She sighed and relaxed. “Mmm-humm.” His hands were like magic, soothing away the hurt. He’d called her sweetheart. She lay back, relaxed, letting him massage and manipulate the cramp away, thinking of what a study in contrasts Sam Brown had turned out to be. As if to bear out the point, a few minutes later he eased himself beside her again and pulled her into the curve of his body until they rested like two spoons in a drawer. As if to himself he mused, “Well, well . . . what’s this now? I think I’ve discovered an Indian mound.”

Lee burst out laughing and swatted him. “Sam Brown, you’re awful!”

“Mmm . . . maybe I’ll explore it.”

“This one’s been explored several times today.”

“What? No more treasures left in it?”

Already he was searching for anything he might have missed. She knew that when he found it delight would surely follow, so she teased in return. “Well, there might be an old arrowhead left lying around.”