Incidental Contact (Those Devilish De Marco Men) (23 page)

“I’ve been in the packing shed this week. No boxes anywhere, just empty packing crates.” Eric spoke. “Amy and I can check out the schoolhouse and the boss’s cabin. I wanted to show her the camp anyway.”

“What am I looking for?” Amy asked.

Dan held his hands about eight inches apart. “Ledger books, about this tall and maybe a foot wide. The covers are blue canvas, and they have brown leather on the spines and corners. Last time I saw ‘em, there were about fifty, all together in one big-ass box. I just dunno where Dad moved them. We need the record for 1984.”

“When was that?” Eric demanded. “When did you actually see them last?”

“The day Grandmother brought the deed for the orchards. She’d packed every piece of paper Nance ever scribbled on. All his office furniture, the file cabinets, the whole she-bang. It took half the damn day to unload that rental truck. Last time I saw them.”

“Rental truck?” Lila repeated. “Every man in this family drives a truck. Why’d she rent a truck?”

“Nance had had a heart attack. She wasn’t speak—” Dan glared at Colton. Eric stared at his hands.

“Ancient history. We need to get busy.” Dan pushed his chair back and stood.

* * * *

E
ric had to make three stabs at the latch to get his seatbelt fastened. The conversation in the kitchen had taken a turn he hadn’t seen coming.

“What’s this camp?” Amy asked.

“Migrant workers lived here for the picking season. We provided housing. There were cottages for the bosses, dormitories for the rest, a community mess hall and kitchen, and a bath house, in addition to the big packing sheds and equipment-storage buildings. Dan used to lease it to the Boy Scouts until a couple of years ago. They finally raised the money and built their own. I thought about keeping the place going as a summer camp for kids, but what do I know about running a camp?”

Eric kept his tone casual, but felt the familiar stab at the memory of his failure. He’d labored over a business plan and applied for a loan, only to be turned down by the bank. Turned down by Drew’s uncle, to be precise.

She looked out her window. Her ghostly reflection in the glass showed how wide her eyes were. “My mom said I should get you to tell me about your great-grandfather De Marco.”

Eric dove into the story with a sense of relief. “After some scandal over a woman when he was sixteen, Dante De Marco’s family scraped up the money to buy him third-class passage to America. This was in 1903. He learned his first words of English during the voyage. When he got off Ellis Island, Dante went to work as a stevedore, but basically, the men in his family were farmers. He didn’t like the crowded city, or the way the Irish ran the docks. So, after a few weeks, he stowed away on a boat heading to Charleston. He figured since so many freed blacks were moving north, he might find work as a field hand.”

“On board, he met a woman who was headed home to Portsmouth, Virginia. She brought him food and helped him stay hidden. I think by the time they arrived in port, they were in love. Dante got off the boat there. He got another job unloading cargo on the docks. Her father wasn’t happy. He’d taken her to New York to find a rich husband and not only did she not manage that, she fell for an immigrant. After a year, Dante was still eking out a living unloading cargo. The day he learned he was going to be a father, a schooner went down off the Virginia coast. The wreck was auctioned. Dante bid every dime he had to his name to buy the salvage. He was determined to leave town because he wasn’t willing to stay in a place where people would shun his child or the woman he loved because he was a migrant.”

“The damage wasn’t as bad as the ship owner thought and Dante was able to float the schooner. Part of it never went under. Those trunks in your room? They came off that boat. He packed what he owned in one, and her stuff in the other, whenever she’d sneak her things out of her father’s house. Once he sold all the salvage and the ship, he and his lover eloped. Rather than head to Charleston, they came to the upstate because she feared her father would look for them in the place he knew Dante planned to go.”

“Wow, that’s romantic. What was her name?”

“Mamie. They had one son. His name was Rafael, after Dante’s father. He married a local girl, and they had Emilio. Emilio named his son—my dad—for Mamie and Dante’s son.”

“So, no girls?” Amy asked.

Thinking over the short family tree, he shook his head. “Sarah was the first girl born to a De Marco in this country.” He glanced at Amy, admiring the way she’d honed in on something he hadn’t noticed. He’d never thought about the story in those terms. “Well, the first who survived. I think there were some deaths and stillborns. See, the woman who caused Dante to leave Italy was...”—he scowled—“whadda you call it when they’re not nuns yet, but are promised to the church?”

“Um, novitiate?”

“Sounds good.” He laughed. “Someone he shouldn’t have fooled with, in other words.”

“So, the De Marcos are cursed to have no daughters because of that, huh?”

Are we cursed?
Eric could almost buy that. “If you believe in that kind of thing.”

“My dad might call only having sons a blessing. From the sound of it, my sister wants to compete for wedding of the year.”

He brought the truck to a standstill at the cattle gate barring the entrance to the camp. Her gasp made him smile. Amy jumped out on her side of the truck, running through the snow to the foot of the camp’s unique guardian while Eric rummaged in the dash for his ring of farm keys.

While he dragged the iron barrier open, she tilted her head back to stare at the totem long-ago migrants had carved. The rough wooden angel looked fuzzy, thanks to the snow clinging to her peeling paint. The angel held a peach, carved from a piece of pink limestone. Most of the year, the statue was hidden by vines no one bothered to clear away.

Eric loved that angel. The exuberant, primitive carving, the faded blue paint on the angel’s robe, the once-bright yellow of the hair, the realistic shades of the stone used to  make the fruit, as well as the larger-than-life size, had all served to make a huge impression on him as a kid. “It’s a fertility totem, carved about the time of the Depression. Made from one of the big cedar trees that grow up here.”

“It’s beautiful.”

Enjoying the way she scrutinized the statue, he reached for her hand. She needed gloves.

Something about her seemed to force confidences from him. “Grandfather Chapman said this angel could stretch her wings and touch both neighboring states. It sure kept me busy, trying to imagine that happening.” He’d never admitted that to anyone. “I used to love to come up here and hang out, especially after my mom disappeared. Dad just got too dark.” Eric’s chest throbbed with the pain of wondering how different all their lives might've been had his mother not been killed. Even if they’d just known she was dead—

“I wish they could fry the bastard who killed Cammie.” Amy’s tone was fierce. “I’d volunteer to throw the switch.”

He hugged her to his side, too choked up to respond.

“Oh, that reminds me. I made good money yesterday at the tournament. Called three games I wasn’t scheduled for, because some of the refs couldn’t make it.” She scuffed a toe through the snow, but never dropped her gaze from his face. “I can afford to pay rent, if you want.”

The woman who knew the rules to every sport played in America clearly had no idea how the oldest of female games was played.

She’s trying not to commit a deliberate foul.
This was the moment to dial things back. Eric specialized in recognizing such opportunities. He could take a small sum and put this thing firmly in the “just friends” category. Take the pressure off his dick. Stop worrying about what his brothers might say, or Lila or Cynda.

Sincerity was always what he saw when he looked into her eyes. Sincerity and warmth, and he saw both now.

I don’t want to be her friend.

“I like the deal we have. Tell you what. You buy the proper clothes and I’ll buy the naughty ones to go underneath.” He traced the curve of her cheek with his thumb. “Ones only I know you have on.” Her red cheeks might’ve been from the cold, but Eric didn’t think he’d ever grow tired of seeing her blush.

“I’d rather have a root canal than go shopping for clothes again.” The wind gusted, blowing snow off the angel’s wings. Flakes caught in her lashes and mingled with the freckles on her nose. “Can’t we shop for video games?”

Eric brushed off the flakes, then laid his palm across her forehead. “What? You must be sick. Every woman loves to buy new clothes. It’s coded in your DNA.”

“I didn’t get that gene. Same way I didn’t get legs or a waist.” He wanted to bite that cute lower lip when she stuck it out.

“There’s nothing wrong with your legs. Or your waist. You have curves. Those are good things, Amy. On cars, bikes, and women, curves are sexy as hell.
You’re
sexy as hell.”

Amy went up on her toes. Putting her hands on either side of his face, she tugged his head toward hers.

He bent willingly, reveling in the chill of her palms against his cheeks and the soft stroke of her tongue against his lips. He let her take the lead. Her kiss wasn’t as tentative as the one she’d given him at the mall that first night. This was a woman’s kiss, sure and sweet. Eric curled his hands under her butt and lifted her, walking her backward until her back made contact with the truck door. He’d meant to stand her on the step, but she wrapped her legs around his waist.

Snow swirled thick and fast around them, but Eric’s temperature was rising, despite the flakes drifting down the back of his neck. She worked her hands between their bodies, sliding her palms under his jacket, up his chest, and around his neck. The feel of her small hands around his neck made something in his chest feel loose and fluttery.

He loved the way her hands felt on his skin. Loved the soft way her body curved around him. Eric broke the kiss, gasping for breath. His cock was growing hard, pressed against the warm juncture between her thighs. He had to put his lips on the impossibly soft skin on her neck. And that earlobe was too tempting to pass up.

Eric wanted to kiss every little soft thing.

Pulling back, he studied her face. God, those chubby cheeks were adorable. That shy-but-eager look was enough to tear a man apart. “I’m not having sex underneath a fertility totem,” she announced. “I’m a big believer in Murphy’s Law. But it is Sunday.”

Oh, hell yes, it was Sunday.

He sat her on her feet and yanked the back door open. Tugging off his jacket, he wadded it into a ball and hurled it against the far door. His flannel shirt followed, but he never took his eyes off Amy. Taking her by the hand, he helped her into the back seat. She scooted to the far end of the bench and unbuttoned her jeans. “Not doing this alone.”

* * * *

A
my’s heart soared when Eric turned down her offer of rent money. The way he was holding off having intercourse had come to seem like a game, and she was very good at games. She’d see how damn long the man could hold out. This was part of their rental agreement and she was going to use everything at her disposal. She slid across the seat and pressed her back against the door.

Eyes locked on his face, Amy removed her sweater and pants. Her lingerie set was one of those Tina had put in the dressing room. His eyes went wide and a look of male appreciation flashed across his face. She’d never seen that look on a man’s face, not from looking at her, or her underwear.

The power of feeling feminine raced through her like a drug.
Worth every cent. Going back for more.

He climbed in and closed the door, resting one knee on the seat. He propped the other foot on the floorboard and unzipped his pants.

“Go on,” he urged, glancing up.

That look.

She eased her fingers along her slit.

His boxers were the cotton knit he seemed to favor. The deep red looked sexy against his dark skin. Inside the fabric, he began to move his hand. His opened jeans concealed more than they showed, but a thrill rushed through her when the flushed head of his cock poked above the band of gray elastic.

“Show me your nipples.” His voice was a sexy growl.

“Show me yours and I will.”

He yanked the knit tee over his head. He wasn’t gym-rat sculpted. This wasn’t bulk, but lean muscle earned by hard work. Small bulges danced along his abdomen, tightened into knots by his position. Just the sight of those muscles and the thick trail of hair disappearing into his waistband cranked up her arousal.

She eased her finger along the top edge of one cup, tucking the lace under her breast. Watching his eyes, she raked her thumb across the hard peak. He groaned.

She paused before she pulled the other cup down. “Jeans.”

His brows went up, but she saw approval in his eyes. When he worked the denim down his thighs, she exposed her other breast and rolled her nipples between her fingers. The long, thick outline along his thigh showed why he preferred the support of boxer-briefs. The window at his back began to fog. The heavy snow made a cocoon around them and every bit of the heat in the cab seemed to come from Eric’s smile.

“Touch yourself.”

Obediently, she began massaging her nub. The streak of pleasure made her dizzy.

He shoved his boxers down, showing her the hard column she’d wondered about for so long. She studied the thick veins coursing along the length.

He licked his palm and grasped his shaft. He was thick but his fingers could span the girth of his shaft. She clenched the muscles in her pussy, thinking about how he might feel inside her. She dragged her fingers along her slit on the outside of the silky panties. Her nub throbbed. The sight of his hard cock only drove her desire higher.

I did that. He’s hard for me.

Most amazing thing. Ever.

Amy felt sexy. Their breaths were hard pants and she matched the tempo of her strokes to his—and he noticed that she did. His smile grew hotter.

“Finger yourself,” he ordered. “I want to see those little fingers in your pussy. And then I wanna lick every drop of you off them.”