Jezebel's Blues (7 page)

She closed her eyes briefly, as if she could erase her desire and start afresh. But it even annoyed her that he was right: the jeans
were
uncomfortable, as was the long-sleeved shirt. Her waist was sweaty, her back beneath the elastic of her bra crawled and her calves itched. In the hurry to bring supplies to the attic, she had completely overlooked the need for fresh clothing.

Eric had been digging in the trunk with her grandmother’s old clothes and he tossed a simple, sleeveless shift at her. “Go on and change,” he urged. Then more kindly he added, “We’re bound to be stuck here at least until morning. You may as well get comfortable.”

With a sigh, Celia nodded. It wasn’t his fault he bewildered her. He hadn’t asked to be marooned in an attic with a skinny, boring math teacher. It wasn’t his fault that she was so vividly attracted to him. He probably thought he was being kind by keeping her at arm’s length.

She grasped the dress and headed for the landing.

* * *

By sunset, the attic was stuffy, hot and still. Eric had found a pair of cut-off jean shorts—badly wrinkled and worn nearly threadbare—in his pack. He had exchanged them for his jeans and he was still uncomfortable.

Celia sat by the window, eating stale bread. Her pale skin was flushed and dewy. Her hair, bedraggled by the day, without a wash and the effects of the thick air, clung to her neck. The shift she wore was a couple of sizes too big. It gaped around the arms and slipped around the shoulders. She had to keep tugging it up.

She looked like a ragamuffin child in her bare feet and big dress and uncombed hair. It touched him inexplicably, and although he’d kept his distance all day with a combination of humor and silence, he reached now for the comb and a length of string in his pack. “Come here, Celia.”

Her big, gray eyes met his and he saw again the strange combination of distrust and hero worship that he’d seen this morning. Ignoring it, he held up his comb. “Let me get your hair out of your way for you.”

She seemed to consider this, then stood up and sat down in front of him, tucking the big dress between her knees modestly. He chuckled.

“What?” she asked suspiciously.

He began to untangle her fine hair, gently loosening snarls from the bottom up. “Wonder how old that dress is.”

“At least twenty years. I remember it from when I was little.” She shrugged. “I know it looks silly, but I don’t care. It feels much better than those jeans.”

He grunted in answer. The tangles smoothed, he simply combed through the fine mass, admiring the shape of her head and the shine of moon colors through the teeth of his black comb.

For the first time all day, she relaxed. He could see it in the way her shoulders dropped slightly, letting the dress slide out of place once again, showing a spaghetti-thin bra strap. When she reached to pull the fabric again, he said, “Don’t worry about that. I’ve already seen it thirteen times. Just relax.”

Surprisingly, she let her hands drop back to her lap. “That really feels good,” she admitted. “No one has combed my hair since this dress was new, probably.”

The small confession plucked at him. “I used to do my sister’s hair before we went to school,” he said. “She liked to wear it in one long braid, and it took me a month of Sundays, but I finally got it right.”

He divided the silvery hair, remembering Laura’s long, thick, black tresses as he began to braid. The back of Celia’s arms rested lightly against his bare knees and shins. “Bear with me, now,” he said. “It may take me a try or two. It’s been a while.”

And because his fingers were no longer deft and nimble, the hair fell from his grip more than once. Celia didn’t move, and on the fourth try, he managed to weave a smooth braid that he tied with string.

She touched the bow at the end and glanced over her shoulder at him, smiling. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

With a sigh, less restless now, she reached for the fat candle and lit it, then stood up and helped herself to the bottle of bourbon. “Do you mind?” she asked.

“Not if you’ll pour me one while you’re at it.”

“Of course.” She poured, then handed him one cup and curled her hands around the other. Settling opposite him with her back against the wall, she commented, “It’s a good thing this is almost over or we’d starve.”

He sipped gratefully of the sweet whiskey and settled back himself, leaning his elbows against the mattress. “Yeah, I’m lookin’ forward to a big, fat, juicy sirloin, medium rare.”

“Mmm.” Celia pursed her lips. “I want a meat loaf with ketchup, a pile of buttered string beans and about three pots of very strong coffee.”

“Meat loaf?”

“With onions and oatmeal.”

He grinned, feeling the whiskey ease down his throat and pool in a dangerous lake of heat in his stomach, a heat he felt move in his blood as her dress slipped again. “Nobody loves meat loaf, Celia. Meat loaf is what your mom made and when you came in for supper you said, ‘Oh, no, not meat loaf.’”

She laughed, showing the brilliant, pretty teeth. “My mother wouldn’t have come within three feet of a meat loaf. It was what my father and I ate when we were being rebellious.”

“And I thought my childhood was strange,” Eric said. In spite of the danger, he drank again, feeling a little reckless. A sliver of her very ordinary, very plain white bra showed, and he wondered if she wore ordinary white underwear, as well. Probably. Why the hell should that be so exciting?

“Did you have a strange childhood, Eric?”

“Not like yours. No paparazzi following me around or anything.”

“So what made it strange?”

He saw that both of their cups were empty and he lifted the Jack Daniel’s bottle to refill them. It was their last night in the attic, after all. They’d been through a flood together. What was a little intemperance between friends? His pouring was generous. “It wasn’t exactly strange,” he said. “Just bad.”

To offset the gloomy sound of that, he picked up his harmonica, but when he blew a few notes, they came out sounding just like his childhood: motherless and full of too much work. He put it down again.

“How long have you played?” Celia asked.

“Harmonica?” he asked before he remembered she didn’t know he’d ever played guitar. “Since I was about twelve or so. An old man gave it to me.”

“Will you play something?”

He held the harp between his fingers for a moment, hesitating. Then he propped his elbows on his knees and bowed into the instrument, drawing softly. He let the notes lead him where they would. It was again a lonely sound that filled the air, a sound of train whistles in the middle of the night, a sound of empty all-night diners and hotel rooms just before dawn.

His lips tightened and he put the harp down, feeling the old hollowness suck all the breath from his lungs. Celia was silent, but he felt her sympathy as clearly as if she’d wrapped herself around him. He didn’t dare look at her. Instead, he ran his thumbs over the engraved silver of the harmonica until the emptiness eased.

How did she know? he wondered. How could she see inside of him the way she did? He didn’t like it, didn’t like anyone coming that close.

He frowned and looked up. Instead of the flow of kindness he’d seen this morning, there was now a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. One corner of her pretty pink mouth curled almost impishly. Without a word, she grabbed the bottle of bourbon and unstoppered it, then poured a hefty measure in the empty cup near his foot.

Then she returned to her original spot, lifted her cup ironically and took a sip. “I can’t help it, you know.”

“Help what?” His tone was gruff even to his own ears.

“Seeing what you play. Seeing that you aren’t that gruff bad boy you’re trying so hard to convince me that you are.” The small curl on her mouth broke into a full smile. “I’ve been teaching for five years. There’s always one like you.”

The easy observation annoyed him. Deliberately, he eyed the smooth, long expanse of white thigh exposed by her new position. And for an instant, he remembered the feel of her body against his this morning, the easy pearling of her nipple against his hand, the small movements she made against her will. Instinctively, he knew she would be unlike any lover he had ever had.

Lifting the whiskey, he drank it all in one quick swallow, then stood up. “I’m no teenager, Miss Moon.”

The glitter of mischievousness in her pale eyes sharpened. She eyed his bared legs and chest, then looked him square in the eye. “I can see that.”

He knew if he wanted it, they could be lovers tonight. She didn’t exactly expect it, but she’d meet him more than halfway if he let down his walls.

He didn’t dare. Not because she’d ask more than he had to give her, not because he didn’t want to use this gentle, trusting woman, and not because he could see that she thought herself to be a little infatuated with him.

He could not take that step toward her and lose himself in the delight of exploring her because Celia Moon saw through him—and if he didn’t get away real soon, she would see exactly what there was inside of him.

Nothing.

So in spite of the delicious length of thigh and the glitter in her wide, gray eyes and the temptation of her mischievousness, he turned away. “I’m beat,” he said, and flopped belly first on the bed, hiding his arousal and his face.

Shutting her out.

W
hen Celia awakened in the morning, it took her a few seconds to realize what was wrong. Then the complete silence of the room penetrated her fuzzy morning brain.

Eric was gone.

She sat up, her heart squeezing painfully. She’d been so sure he’d at least tell her goodbye.

After a moment of piercing—and disturbing—sorrow over his departure, she spied his pack near the window. His clothes had been gathered, his cards and dice and various other possessions neatly resettled in the heavy canvas pack. Her sadness lightened a notch, but only a notch. The idyll was over. Her drifter was moving on.

She rose and went to the window. Beneath a sunny morning sky, the ground was muddy and strewed with debris of all kinds, put patently, perfectly visible again. A flock of crows picked gleefully through the mud, cawing and chatting and fluttering over the rich finds.

Her sense of depression broke, and she whirled, stopping only to pull on her shoes in clumsy haste. She flew down the stairs and headed for the open front door, anxious to be once again outside, breathing fresh air, feeling the sun on her arms, the wind on her face.

But in the living room, she halted, stunned, her feet sunk in mud.

“Good heavens,” she breathed.

She had known, intellectually at least, that water had covered every inch of the house downstairs. She had known things would be ruined, that essentially, she would have to replace everything.

She had not even begun to imagine the complete, utter
mess
.

Mud, twigs, rocks and unidentifiable sludge clung to everything—the furniture and tables, the walls and windowsills and doors. On the floor, the returning water had left swirling footprints of thick silt.

And the smell! She covered her mouth and nose with her hand. It smelled like river water and sodden wood and old carpets; like sewage and stagnant wells.

From just outside the window, a bullfrog croaked, loudly. It startled her and she moved toward the sound.

“Celia! Don’t move!” Eric’s voice sounded behind her, its husky tones sharp with warning. “Stay where you are.”

Celia froze at the implicit danger in his words. Her mind raced. River water, silt, bullfrogs, snakes. Snakes. Her flesh squeezed on her bones and she shuddered inwardly.

“Don’t move one tiny muscle,” Eric warned quietly. A soft weight crossed one of her feet, then touched the other. The weight slid with warm, sinuous ease over her shoes. It seemed to go on and on and on. Tears sprung to her eyes as she clenched her fists tight at her sides and gritted her teeth until she thought they would break.

“Keep still, sugar,” Eric said, his voice slower now, more seductive than she’d ever heard it. “One more minute.”

There was a sudden loud thud and Eric made a peculiar grunting noise. “All right, Celia. You’re safe.”

It took a minute to unfreeze all the rigid muscles, but Celia creakily turned. At the sight of the creature that had crawled over her feet, now quite obviously dead, she nearly fainted.

“What is that?” she squeaked.

“Haven’t you ever seen a water moccasin?” he asked, nudging the body with the shovel he’d used to kill it.

She stared at the mud-colored body, horrified. It was nearly five feet long. No wonder it had taken so long to cross her feet.

She whirled and ran outside, her skin crawling, her stomach heaving. The bullfrog croaked again, and in blind terror, Celia climbed onto the porch railing, clinging to the slippery post rather than take a chance on another snake showing up.

Shivering, she crouched there. She heard Eric come outside, then felt his presence behind her. “You’re all right now,” he said.

“That’s what you think,” she said, but her voice was steady. Slowly, her quaking nerves returned to normal and she became aware of the absurd picture she made clinging to the porch railing like a little girl in an oversize dress with unbrushed hair. She looked around the porch, saw that it was empty and gingerly stepped down, trying to reclaim her dignity. “Thank you,” she said, head bent.

“I hated to kill him.”

Celia choked. “Why?”

“He just got lost. Wasn’t his fault old Jezebel threw a temper tantrum and left him stranded in somebody’s house. ” Hands on his hips, Eric looked at the body of the snake, which he’d tossed out into the yard. “Problem is, he doesn’t speak English and I don’t speak snake.”

Celia finally became aware that he’d obviously been working for quite some time this morning. His shirt hung open, his jeans were grimy and a sheen of sweat covered his chest and face. Even so, he was the most incredibly perfect human being she’d ever seen.

He gestured toward the house. “Come on in here and let me show you a couple of things.”

“Do you think there will be more snakes?”