Honey and Smoke (6 page)

“Hmmm. You married him?”

“Oh, no. We were too cool to get married. At least he was. We had an … an understanding, you see. Unfortunately, I understood that one day we’d get married, and he understood that one day he’d get a recording contract and move to Los Angeles.”

“Alone?”

“Oh, he asked me to come along. But I was tired of being a ‘significant other.’ I had started to feel like an awfully
insignificant
other.” Betty kept her expression neutral, but feelings of resentment rose inside her again, directed at Max and his carefree attitude. “I spent a lot
of years telling myself that marriage didn’t matter. Well, I was lying to myself. It does matter, at least to me.”

Abruptly she shook her head and looked heavenward. “Aaagh! I’m spilling my guts to a man who thinks weddings are a joke!” She leveled a hard gaze at Max, daring him to deny it.

He didn’t take the dare. “They are a joke.”

“Why?”

“Because about half of all marriages end in divorce. Because a lot of people only get married out of loneliness, or because it makes sex convenient, or because their parents brainwashed them into believing that there’s something wrong with them if they
don’t
want to get married.”

“You can’t tell me that you’ve never loved a woman and thought that it would be nice to spend the rest of your life with her.”

“You’re right. But I can tell you that I’ve never seriously considered getting married. I live in the present. Marriage is based on fantasizing about the future.”

“I bet a lot of women have left you, hmmm?”

He chuckled coldly. “In the marines I was transferred to a new base every two or three years. I did most of the leaving, whether I wanted to or not.”

“You don’t sound heartbroken.”

“Sorry.” He drained his hot chocolate and reached around her to set the mug on the counter. “How heartbroken are you over the musician? Deathless love should have made you follow him to L.A. Maybe you didn’t love him as much as you think you did.”

Betty straightened with ominous dignity. He was wrong, of course. “Don’t foist your cynical attitudes on me.”

“A little defensive, are you? A sign of inner turmoil. Uncertainty? A niggling intuition that I’m right?”

“It doesn’t really matter what you think of my reasons. I moved here to start something new, something permanent. I’m not going to waste any more time on men who aren’t interested in that.” She half-turned and plunked her mug down on the counter.

“I’m permanent. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good. It’ll be interesting to hear all the gossip about your romances. One day I’ll tell my grandchildren that I knew you when you were young, and you haven’t changed a bit. There’s something to be said for creating that kind of legacy.”

He had gone very still. Either he was angry, or he was calculating his next move. Regardless, his towering, silent scrutiny made her struggle to ignore the poignant mixture of regret and resentment in her chest.

“We’ll see,” he said softly.

Betty tried to laugh. It came out as a huffing, high-pitched, anxious sound, and she kicked herself mentally. She shook her head and looked at him pensively. “Why don’t you and I call a truce and be friends? And I mean
just
friends. That way we won’t keep on disappointing each other.”

His dark expression lightened with amusement and speculation. “So you’ve been hoping for something from me? What is it? I hate to disappoint you.”

She held up both hands. “Oh, no. You’re not drawing me into a word game.”

“I already have. But relax. Let’s be friends.” He came forward a few steps and held out his right hand. His eyes glimmered with laughter. “Shake?”

“You have more smooth moves than a greased snake.”

“You should have been a drill sergeant. You’ve got a way with words. What are you afraid of—a simple handshake?”

She clasped his hand firmly. They shook. He stroked the center of her palm with his fingers as he drew away, and she cursed him silently because his touch made her breath shorten and her skin grow hot. Betty turned away, hoping that he couldn’t read her reaction easily.

“More hot chocolate?” she muttered.

“No thanks. I’ve got an air mattress to inflate.” He started to leave, then stopped so close that his thighs were almost, but not quite, brushing her hips. His
scent, a combination of leather, wool, and fresh autumn air, was distinctly masculine and provocative.

Betty stared at the mugs and didn’t move. “I’ll bring you a few blankets. Oh, there’s plenty of wood if you want to start a fire and sleep in front of the fireplace.”

“Thanks.” His warm breath caressed her cheek. “You’re being very nice to a man who makes you feel uncomfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” she said between gritted teeth as he left the kitchen. Alone, she bent over and, shaking her head in exasperation, covered her face with both hands. She felt as if she were on fire.

Several hours later Betty awoke with his voice in her ear and his hand on her shoulder. She knew something was wrong with the scenario, and after a second she realized what—he was in her bedroom, and she was in bed. She sputtered and tried to move away.

“Sssh, babe,” he whispered, gently holding her still. “There’s someone or something in your cellar. I want you to get dressed and stay by the phone. I’m going to check the cellar out.”

“But there were
three
of those guys. What if—”

He laughed grimly. “They’d better be bad if there are only three.”

She brushed a hand over her eyes and double-checked. Yes, he was for real. “Look, John Wayne, I don’t want you to get hurt. I mean, if you get beat up or shot in my cellar, I’ll feel obligated to be nice to you.”

“Exactly. How about a smooch for the departing warrior?” He bent over her and took her mouth with a hard, caressing kiss, then trailed a finger over her lips. “I can die semi-happy now.” Then he was gone, padding out of her bedroom and down the hall, walking so softly that his hiking boots were nearly soundless on the creaking wood floor.

She scooted out of bed and fumbled in a tall wicker basket where she had stored some of her clothes. Pulling
a pink jogging suit over her pajamas, she shoved her feet into loafers and tiptoed downstairs.

Faux Paw sat on a low step, attentive and curious. Betty stroked the cat’s brindle head distractedly and hurried past. She was an orderly person, not given to cravings for adventure—except, she thought with disgust, where men were concerned. But she wouldn’t spend any more years of her life on that craving. Even if Max Templeton had invaded her life and house and, apparently, had appointed himself her protector.

As she ran to the phone and stood listening intensely for any sound from the cellar, it occurred to her that her musician had never offered to protect her from anything more dangerous than bad vibes at a Grateful Dead concert.

The silence was a rough cloak that rubbed her nerves raw. She stood it as long as she could and then, her mouth acid with fear, she tiptoed through the kitchen and out the back door. Betty opened the screened door on the back porch and looked to the left, where one half of the cellar door stood open.

She returned to the kitchen, searched through one of her cardboard boxes, and pulled a carving knife from its wooden safety sheath. Like any serious cook, she kept her knives honed to a razor edge. With the carving knife clasped in her hand like a small sword, she headed back outdoors and went to the cellar. The pumping of her blood roared in her ears as she waited at the top of the steps.

“Max?” she called down softly. She called again and listened for a full minute, but there was no answer. What was he doing? Why hadn’t he turned the lights on?

Call the sheriff
, her typical, reasonable inner voice told her.

That won’t do Max much good if he’s already in trouble
, a new, fiercer voice countered.

She descended into the dark cellar one heart-stopping step at a time. Its cold, clammy blackness made her
shiver. At the base of the narrow stairs she braced her feet apart and held the knife in front of herself with both hands as she tried to interpret shapes in the dark.

Samurai Betty
, she thought, poking the air experimentally.

Her blood froze when a tiny trickle of dirt cascaded from the red-clay wall behind her. She started to pivot, but a heavy forearm circled her neck, and a hand grabbed both of her hands in a twisting grip that made her drop the knife.

“Oh, Max, you cretin,” she said with relief and annoyance. “Stop it.”

“Shut up.”

It wasn’t Max’s voice.

Instant terror pumped adrenaline into her muscles. She brought her elbows back and jabbed her captor’s ribs. Her heels beat a drumroll on his legs. The overhead light came on. Max loomed over both her and the stranger, his face composed in the deadly grimace of a wolf focusing on its prey.

He jammed the barrel of his gun into the face behind Betty. “One. Two—”

“All right, man, all right!”

Suddenly she was free. Max latched a hand onto her shoulder and jerked her out of the way, and after she bounced off the opposite clay wall, she swung around and looked at the scene numbly.

Max had pinned a brawny young man against the other wall. The man’s jeans and denim jacket were covered in dirt and bits of leaves, and his sneakers were filthy. Either he’d been running through the woods, or he’d just come out of hibernation, Betty observed wryly.

He looked cross-eyed at the automatic pistol that was under his nose. He kept his hands plastered against the cellar wall behind him.

“Where are your two friends?” Max asked softly.

“I don’t know. I swear. We got separated. Don’t shoot me.”

“Then don’t even breathe wrong.”

“I’m not breathing at all.”

Betty found her voice. “I have some rope.”

“Good.” Max smiled coldly, his eyes never leaving the other man’s. “Let’s hang him.”

She didn’t believe what she said next. But Max provoked her to a giddy desire for mischief. “No, don’t do that. I’ll just go get the Dobermans.”

The captive gasped. “No, lady. Please. I wasn’t gonna hurt you! I was just trying to get past you and up the steps.”

Max snuggled the gun barrel a little tighter against the man’s upper lip. “Aw, he’s kind of pitiful looking, babe. Why don’t I just tie him up?”

“Oh, I suppose.” She bent and retrieved the carving knife she’d dropped. “Darn. I didn’t even get to nick him.” She looked at the knife sadly. “Could I have a second chance?”

The captive moaned. “Please, lady.”

“Oh, relax. I wouldn’t cut off anything important.”

“I’ll talk her out of it. You better sit down,” Max told him. “Slowly.”

The man’s knees buckled and he slid to the cellar floor, his face ashen. Betty took the gun that Max offered to her and aimed it at the man’s head, smiling sweetly at him while Max got a coil of nylon rope from a nail on one of the cellar’s support beams. Max quickly bound the man hands-to-feet.

“You scored fast on that calf tie, Tex,” Betty noted in a twangy drawl.

Max tipped an imaginary Stetson to her. “Yup. Let’s get the brandin’ iron.”

They left their nervous prisoner in the basement and went to the house, where she called the sheriff while Max padded through the downstairs rooms, making sure everything was secure. Within fifteen minutes her front yard filled with cars containing sheriffs deputies as well as police officers from the neighboring county.

The other two robbery suspects had already been
caught. The third, spouting obscenities now that he felt safe, was hauled from Betty’s cellar and taken away. After much interviewing, congratulations, and guffawing, everyone departed except, of course, Betty and Max.

They sat on the front-porch steps, wrapped in quilts. Dawn slipped through the meadow and forest around the house. The peacefulness of the autumn morning and the lingering undercurrent of shock made for a confusing mood. Betty huddled inside her quilt and began to shiver with fatigue and nerves.

“I’ve never shared anything like
this
with anyone else,” she murmured. “I mean … the past night.”

She turned to look at Max, emotions jumbled. There was a bond between them now, whether she wanted it or not. She fought it. He was the most distressing, most exciting man she’d ever met. And completely wrong for the path she’d planned for her life.

Beside her, his hips and thigh pressed companion-ably to hers, Max watched her with a quiet pleasure that made her feel even more unsettled. “We’re great together,” he said, his voice a deep purl. “I’ve never known a woman like you.”

She wanted so badly to kiss him that the desire was an ache inside her throat. “Can a tiger ever change his stripes?” she asked in a small, tired voice.

He gave her a quizzical look, and then, as her meaning registered, his eyes clouded. “In other words, are my intentions honorable?”

“I know how prim the question sounds. I don’t expect every man I meet to hand over a signed affidavit guaranteeing his interest in marriage.” She searched his face desperately. “But with you I have a feeling that there wouldn’t be any holding back. I’d be in over my head so fast that I wouldn’t see the light until it blinded me. I want an affidavit.”

He lifted a hand and cupped her chin. “I could lie to you, but I won’t. I can’t see myself ever getting married. After watching my father live happily by himself, and
after seeing so many of my Marine Corps cronies suffer through one divorce after another, I think the institution of marriage is highly overrated.” He paused, looking at her somberly. “I may not believe in marriage, but I have nothing against love.”

“What if you want children?”

“My career didn’t give me much chance to put down roots, so I suppose that over the years I just lost interest in the possibility of having a family. I don’t expect to have any children.”

A cold, hard knot of disappointment settled inside her. “Thank you for being honest.”

“Accept my honesty. Accept me.” He bent his head close to hers and added gruffly, “Let’s go Inside the house. I’ll make us both another cup of hot chocolate—with bourbon this time. When you’re feeling warm and relaxed, I’ll carry you up to your bedroom. I’ll undress us both, and well curl up together under your electric blanket. And I promise you, you won’t have any regrets about the way I make you feel.”