Banish Misfortune (29 page)

Bright sunlight was streaming in the guest-room window. With a muffled moan Jessica dove beneath the patchwork quilt in a vain quest for darkness and sleep. As long as Matthew was quiet she could sleep; her subconscious had instilled that particular rule, enabling her to grab the miscellaneous moments of sleep offered her.

But no comfort awaited her. The bed was different, lumpy, and there were no sheets on it. The bright sunlight was coming from the wrong side, not the side her windows were on, and Matthew should have been demanding a clean diaper and a bottle hours ago. Flinging back the threadbare quilt, she sat bolt upright and stared at the pretty, anonymous confines of the front bedroom. What the hell had Springer done with her son?

She didn't pause long enough to throw on clothes, didn't hesitate for an instant. She nearly went headfirst down the stairs in her panic, and the sight of his empty crib did nothing for her state of mind. By the time she raced into the kitchen she was practically speechless with fright.

Springer was sitting on the kitchen stool, his faded jeans riding low on his hips, his chest bare beneath the unbuttoned blue flannel shirt. He was holding Matthew with a relaxed, obviously experienced grip while he fed him, and he raised his head slowly, those distant brown eyes of his looking her up and down with a slow, measuring glance. "Something wrong?" he greeted her casually enough.

It was at that moment she realized exactly what she was wearing. She'd been too tired and depressed to put on nightclothes the night before. She'd fallen asleep in a pair of cotton bikini panties and a skimpy French-cut T-shirt, and that's what she was still wearing.

She had two alternatives. She could shriek, blush and race back upstairs, not coming back down until she was properly clothed and some of this ridiculously prudish embarrassment faded. Or she could continue on into the kitchen and act as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

And nothing particularly was. She wasn't overly modest, or ashamed of her body. If it had been a stranger, or someone like Andrew Cameron, she wouldn't have been embarrassed. But it was Springer, who'd seen her in far less, and she was determined to tough it out.

"I guess I overslept," she murmured, moving into the kitchen with an attempt at nonchalance. If only he wouldn't keep looking at her with such obvious amusement, she thought.

"Matthew and I thought we'd let you sleep in. I could hear you tossing and turning for hours last night."

"Sorry if I kept you awake," she said coolly, moving to the open kitchen door in search of a cooling breeze.

"The walls have always been thin, and that bed's springs are pre-Civil War," he murmured lazily, still watching her. "There's coffee on the stove if you want some."

She didn't particularly, not if she had to accept it from him, but it gave her something to do. "Thanks," she murmured ungraciously, moving to the stove. It was still warm, and she poured herself a large mug. Taking a tentative sip, she turned back to find him still eyeing her with that peculiar curve to his mouth.

"What are you staring at?" she demanded finally, irritation beginning to overwhelm her embarrassment.

"I never knew that someone could blush on the stomach and legs," he drawled. "If you're embarrassed, why don't you go put on some more clothes, instead of pretending it doesn't bother you?"

She slammed her coffee down on the counter, slopping half of it over her hand. "I'm perfectly comfortable," she snapped. "If it bothers you, you can go back to New York or Washington or wherever."

His smile widened wickedly. "Oh, I'm just fine, Jessie. You can prance around stark naked for all I care—it doesn't move me in the slightest."

"Thank God for small favors." She refilled her coffee cup, contemplating and then discarding the very real temptation to dump the rest of the coffee on Springer's silky black head. Only the sight of her son resting peacefully in his arms, directly in the line of fire, stopped her. "That should make sharing this house a great deal easier." She took a sip of the coffee, made a face and went delving into the refrigerator in search of cream to take some of the curse off the strong brew.

There was a sharp intake of breath behind her, and she backed out of the refrigerator quickly, turning and standing up again. Springer was looking calm and unruffled, his attention on Matthew, and she wondered if she'd imagined that sudden sound that suggested he wasn't quite as unmoved as he imagined. Or was that wishful thinking on her part?

Wishful thinking,
her mind echoed in outrage.
Have you gone out of your mind? Why in heaven's name would you want him to still want you? Haven't you got troubles enough?

Ego, Jessie,
she said, calming herself.
It has nothing to do with anything more than simple pride.

"What's going through your devious mind now?" Springer queried, rising from the stool and placing the dozing Matthew in his basket. "I don't trust that look of yours."

"Don't be ridiculous, Springer, you don't trust anything about me, never mind an expression or two," she scoffed, leaning back against the cool white enamel finish of the ancient refrigerator.

"True enough." He was moving closer now, across the room, and in her bare feet and skimpy clothing she felt uncomfortably vulnerable. He stopped by the stove to refill his own coffee mug, and then bore down on her, slowly, menacingly, she thought, his tall, lean body a delicious threat to her suddenly wide eyes.

He was only inches away; she could feel the body heat emanating from all that formidably beautiful flesh, and she wondered if he could hear her heart hammering so loudly beneath the thin T-shirt. His arm reached out, past her waist, and she drew in her breath sharply as his skin grazed her bare flesh. Catching the refrigerator door handle, he pulled it toward him, pulling her unwillingly mesmerized body with it.

It took her a moment longer to come to her senses, and she ducked out of his way seconds before her body would have met his. "I use milk in my coffee," he said blandly, reaching in to the refrigerator without a backward glance. But Jessie knew that no benevolent fate would have kept him unaware of her obvious reaction to that slow, sinuous almost-embrace. And that small, satisfied smile on his face as he turned back to her only increased her murderous thoughts.

"You're a real turkey, you know," she said quietly, standing very still.

"And you're still ridiculously gullible for a woman your age. Why didn't you tell me, Jessie?" His voice was flat, matter-of-fact, so why did she think she heard a trace of vulnerability there? It had to be more wishful thinking.

"I didn't figure it was any of your business. And why should you have cared? I was just one in what I gather is an incredibly long line of one-night stands. You weren't thinking about the possible consequences when we went to bed together. I was just sparing you ever having to think about those consequences. What you didn't know didn't hurt you."

"Cut the crap, little mother," he snarled. "You were too self-centered to even think about my possible reactions; you weren't thinking about sparing me the consequences. I'm just amazed you didn't have a quick abortion and put the whole thing out of your mind. Peter wouldn't have minded."

Jessica smiled, a small, dangerous smile. "You've just proven my point, Springer. What it all boiled down to is that we don't really know each other. I had no idea what your reaction would be, for the simple reason that I had only met you twice before I found out I was pregnant, and both times we ended in bed together without much conversation. And if you think you know me, you wouldn't wonder why I didn't have an abortion and marry Peter Kinsey. But you don't know me, you don't know anything about me, and you stand there like some damn judge and jury, Cotton Mather to the life, and think you've got me all figured out." Her breath was coming more rapidly in her fury, and her untrammeled breasts were rising and falling beneath the thin cotton top. "Let me tell you, Springer MacDowell, that you don't know anything about me, you never have, and you never will." As her voice rose the sound of it penetrated Matthew's sleep, and he shifted in the basket, whimpering slightly. "Now see what you've done; you woke the baby," she said in a loud whisper, heading toward the basket.

Springer's hands reached out and caught her arms, turning her with a gentleness that nevertheless allowed no possibility for escape, and moved her back toward the kitchen door, out of range of the rush basket. She tried to jerk away, but his hands tightened warningly. "Just relax, little mother," he drawled. "You didn't wake him. He's dry, well fed, and he's been up since six. He's ready for a nap."

"I didn't say I woke him, I said you—"

"I know what you said. I also know more about you than you think." He waited for a moment, then slowly released her, his fingers loosening their iron grip on her arms. "I know that your parents were both alcoholics and they're dead. That you've got two sisters somewhere that you don't see unless they want something. I know that you've got the reputation of having slept your way to the vice-presidency of Kinsey Enterprises, and that the only man you've ever slept with is a lawyer named Philip Mercer. Apart from me, that is. I know you've been a good friend to my parents and a lousy friend to yourself." His hand caught one arm again, slid down the silken length of it to catch her wrist, turning it up in his hand to expose the fading tracery of scars. "And I know you've tried to kill yourself, at least once, and did a fairly good job of it."

She didn't pull away from him; she couldn't. "What did you do, hire a private detective?" she accused him in an anguished whisper.

He shook his head. "No, I just did what anyone would do when they needed some information. I asked my mother." His self-deprecating smile failed to penetrate her glazed anger.

"You've got some of the facts wrong," she said bitterly. "And you missed one early installment of my scintillating love life."

He shrugged. "I doubt it was important. It seems you've been lacking both quantity and quality. Maybe sometime you'll find someone, maybe you won't. That'll depend on you."

She stared up at him, her mind in turmoil.
I did find
someone,
she wanted to scream. "I have no interest in finding a satisfactory love life, Springer," she said icily. "I just want you to leave me and my son alone."

"Don't you realize that..." His words trailed off as they both heard the loud slamming of the front screen door. Jessica knew who it was—only Marianne could slam the door with just that combination of belligerence and energy.

"Jessie, where are you?" she called out, her footsteps coming closer. The kitchen door swung open just as Springer was moving away, across the room. Jessica's wrist still tingled from his touch, and it was with a great effort that she greeted Marianne with a welcoming smile.

"There you are, Jessie. What in the world are you doing still undressed at this hour? Matthew give you a tough night?" Marianne didn't look as if she'd had the best night's sleep herself. Her freckled face was pale in the late-morning sunlight, and her thick chestnut hair was bundled behind her neck in an untidy bun. She had a distracted, exhausted expression to her usually warm eyes, and she didn't even notice the tall, motionless figure by the kitchen sink.

"Not really." Jessica made a deliberate gesture toward Springer. "I have a visitor."

Marianne turned, her eyes widening in shock, first at his presence with her scantily clad friend, and then at his face. And then her face wreathed in a broad smile. "You must be Peter Kinsey," she said brightly. "I'd recognize you anywhere. Matthew looks just like you."

Jessica turned her face against the wall and moaned loudly, her misery complete.

"Actually I'm Springer MacDowell," he said, moving from the sink and bestowing his most charming smile on a surprisingly responsive Marianne. "And yes, he does look like me, doesn't he? Jessie's at a loss to explain it."

"Shut up, Springer." She pushed herself away from the wall. "Give Marianne some coffee while I go upstairs and get dressed. And don't tell Springer all about my love life, Marianne. He won't be interested."

"What love life?" Marianne demanded, bewildered. "You've been Saint Jessica the Divine for as long as I've known you, complete with immaculate conception." She cast an appraising eye at Springer's rangy form. "Though I guess it wasn't so immaculate after all."

At Springer's unrestrained shout of laughter, Jessica contented herself with a resigned sigh. "Thanks, Marianne. Right on top of things, as always. I'll be back."

She was halfway out the door when she heard Marianne's bright voice. "So tell me, how did you and Jessica meet?" She would have given a great deal to hear Springer's answer. He had more than met his match in the determined Marianne, she thought with her first trace of amusement. Maybe she could drive him away.

But she wouldn't count on it. She knew in her heart that Springer MacDowell wasn't going anywhere until he was good and ready to go, and that didn't look to be in the near future. And she still couldn't be sure if she was angry or relieved at that thought. Maybe a little bit of both. And therein lay the danger.

"You know, Jessie, I like him."

"Traitor," Jessica shot back, albeit with not a great deal of energy. It was hard to summon up the anger that had been dogging her. They were sitting on the side porch facing the clear green-blue of the lake. Jessica was sitting on the steps, knees bent, with Matthew stretched out lengthwise on her thighs, smiling up at her happily. Eric and Shannon were down on the grass in front of them, arguing haphazardly without any interference from their mother, while Marianne drank her coffee, admired Springer's undeniably admirable physique, and tried to look cheerful.

"How long's he going to be here?" She nodded toward Springer's distant figure.

He was wandering down by the lake, poking around the sagging dock, nosing around the tiny semicircle of rocky sand that served as a swimming beach. He was still wearing that faded blue flannel shirt, although he had buttoned the buttons it still boasted and rolled up the tattered sleeves. He'd rolled up his pant legs, too, and for a moment Jessica allowed herself a brief erotic fantasy about those tanned, narrow ankles. She'd never noticed a man's ankles before, never thought of them as a particularly erogenous zone. She thought so now.