Light of Day (12 page)

Swinging his feet out from below the quilts, he lit a cigarette. But hadn’t he, like his brother, carried an ideal to an extreme?

At first The Organization had seemed a moral and levelheaded way to address what Samuel felt were very serious concerns. Like his childhood hero, Einstein, he believed finding peace was not a passive concern; one had to actively work toward it.

The leaders and founders of The Organization were drawn from the top echelons of every powerful government in the world. There were statesmen and economists, scientists and generals. They were, by any reckoning, some of the most erudite and knowledgeable men on the face of the earth. Who was he to question them?

But in five years he’d learned more than he wished to know about the underbelly of mankind. No matter how one tried, it seemed nothing ever healed in the roiling arena of world affairs.

A year ago he’d begun to feel weary, and had thought it was time to move on. Now he was very neatly trapped. Without The Organization he had no chance of survival. Someone had hired Jamal Hassid to kill him. Until he knew exactly who and why, he had not a prayer of living once he left this enclave.

Crushing his cigarette out, he stood wearily. Perhaps food and rest would clear his head.

He slipped on a clean shirt from his suitcase. The sound of the rain, pattering down in earnest, drowned any sounds from below. It also muffled his footsteps as he headed downstairs.

Halfway down, he stopped, entranced. For there, in the uncluttered space between her bed and the table against the opposite wall, Lila danced. Her shadow was flung in sharp relief against the far wall, a flickering, sweeping image that leapt in time to the light and airy tune she was humming.

Bathed in the soft glow cast by a kerosene lantern, she twirled and dipped, her back exquisitely straight, her arms gracefully swaying as her stockinged feet nimbly tipped and flitted. In the swirl of her wrists and the precise, graceful shift of her fingers, Samuel saw the long years of practice that had brought her to the brink of the stage. In the subtle awkwardness of some movements, he saw the shape of a lost dream.

Her face had been in shadow, but she turned now, dipping one shoulder toward him, and the expression on her features seized him.

Joy.

Her eyes were closed, her cheeks flushed, her lips winsomely smiling. From the corners of her eyes, tears flowed in a gentle stream, washing down her cheeks unchecked.

He watched her in rapt silence as she slowed, circled and bowed to an imaginary audience, never dreaming she had attracted a real one.

“Bravo,” he said quietly.

She whirled, hurriedly dashing the tears from her cheeks. “Samuel,” she said. “I didn’t hear you.” Her voice was breathy with exertion.

“I know,” he said, climbing down the rest of the stairs.

Lila buried her face in her hands, laughing. “I’m so embarrassed! You’ve been sleeping a long time—and I always dance when I’m here—”

He took her hand from her face and lifted her chin. “I’ve seen a great many ballets in my life, but not one has ever given me the pleasure of that one.” Helplessly he traced the edge of her jaw with his thumb. Her pale green eyes held an expression of fear mixed with longing and lingering joy. One of her hands circled his wrist.

When her lips parted gently, he was lost to the multitude of hungers he felt in her company. As he bent to kiss those voluptuous lips, meeting their softness, he wanted to taste joy and life again, wanted to somehow absorb her sweetness, reclaim an innocence lost to him so long ago he could barely remember owning it.

And it was joy he tasted in the press of her mouth, in the tender moistness of her tongue. Her hand moved on his arm, and her body swayed into his, sending scarlet ribbons of hunger unfurling through his thighs and belly and manhood. Her breasts pushed against his chest, and he found his hand in the tumbling mass of her hair.

As his tongue slid slowly into the sweet cavern of her mouth, he tugged her hard against him, fitting them together in an almost urgent need to meld together. He circled her waist hard and held her head at a slant to more closely align their mouths. She met him eagerly, her arms slipping around his neck as her back arched. He thought she might even be standing on tiptoe.

He was lost in the dewy texture of her flesh, in the springy curls of her hair, in the wood-smoke scent and succulent taste of her. He was enchanted by the spell of Lila.

So intent was he upon tasting the nectar of her innocence that it took the sour voice of his conscience long moments to be heard. It was wrong to try to restore his joy at the cost of her heart, for in the end he would have to leave her. With a reluctance greater than any he had ever known, he eased their kiss into a slower cadence, gently so as not to wound her. He drew away, still holding her. “I am not a free man, Lila.”

She gazed at him solemnly and lifted a hand to his face. “I know.”

Lila didn’t trust herself to remain so close to him, and with a breathy sigh, moved away. “I made a stew, if you’re hungry, and some bread. I also filled the tub with fresh water and have it heating here by the stove.” She knew she was babbling, but couldn’t seem to stop herself. Every nerve in her body was humming with both dancing and Samuel. “I can easily make a pot of coffee, too, if you like.”

He grabbed her hand and pressed a single finger to her lips. His eyes, molten only seconds before, were alight with laughter. “Shh,” he whispered. “Thank you and thank you and thank you.”

She inhaled slowly and let the breath seep out through her lips. “Okay,” she said. “Let me know.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Yes.”

“All right. Then you should sit and let me get my own. Bowls here?” He pointed toward the curtained cupboard. At Lila’s affirmative noise, he found the wooden bowls and filled one with the hot stew. “It smells wonderful.”

“The bread is in that pan on the back.” To give her hands something to do besides fly up in the air, punctuating her nervousness, she pulled a basket of yarn closer and took out the knitting needles. A multihued afghan tumbled over her legs. Furiously she began to click the needles.

Samuel settled across from her, giving hearty appetite to the stew. Men, she thought in exasperation. Had the situation been reversed, she could never have eaten anything. But Samuel ate with the vigor of a long-starved refugee, washing down the bread and stew with long swallows of cold water from a bucket in the corner. Outside, the rain pounded annoyingly.

Click, click, click. She focused her attention on the knitting, feeding blue yarn through her fingers.

“Lila.” His voice startled her, and she dropped a stitch.

“Damn.” Carefully she picked it up. “What?”

“Is there a contest?”

She looked at him. “What are you talking about?”

He lifted his chin, indicating her knitting needles. “I thought there might be a contest for speed.”

For another second she stared at him blankly. Then his meaning penetrated, and she laughed. “I’m just not quite sure how to behave. No one has ever been here with me before.” She gave him a rueful shrug. “I’m … I’m flustered.”

“And you should be.” In a dry voice he added, “Women have fainted in my arms when I kissed them.”

“Why, Samuel,” she drawled, “I believe you actually made a joke.”

“Oh, no.” His eyes glittered. “A Frenchman’s curse, you know—fainting women.” He blotted his lips neatly. “Now, didn’t I see a bottle or two of wine here?”

“Yes, but I’m afraid you’ll have to drink it out of a tumbler.”

He sighed dramatically. “How far we’ve fallen.” He put his bowl on the small counter with Lila’s. “Here?” He pointed again to the curtained cupboard.

“No,” she said wryly, “you’ll have to run down to the wine cellar.”

He spared a glance over his shoulder before bending down to examine the lower shelf. “Ah.” He pulled out the wine and glasses, found a corkscrew in a bin of utensils and settled back at the table. “I trust you’ll join me?” he said, placing the glass before her.

“Sure.” She found herself knitting more easily now, falling into a soothing rhythm.

Samuel examined the label on the bottle and frowned. “I’ve never heard of this.”

“Local vintage. That’s all they carry. I think Mr. Johnson’s brother-in-law runs the winery.”

“Really.” He poured them each a measure and held his glass up to the light. “Good color,” he commented, and sipped. “Hmm. It isn’t bad, really.”

“I’ve always enjoyed it.”

“I didn’t know they made wine in Oregon.”

Lila lifted her glass. The wine tasted the way it always did, a flavor that made her think of the pleasant summer days she spent here in the cabin. Resuming her knitting, she said, “I read a book once about dandelion wine, about a boy and summer and the dandelions they collected each day for the wine. And when they tasted it later, it was always like they had trapped the day in the wine.” She smiled. “That’s how this wine always tastes to me, like a particular summer day was bottled.”

“Yes.” His face reflected deep pleasure. “Every day my grandfather bought a bottle of local wine for the same reason.” He lifted an eyebrow. “You see how you would have liked one another?”

“He had a sense of wonder, your grandfather.”

“He did. So must the writer of your book.”

“Ray Bradbury—he’s written a lot of books. Some of them are really wonderful.”

“I’ll have to remember.”

The mood in the room seemed to mellow. Samuel shifted to lean his back against the wall, his legs out in front of him, facing the cheerful fire in the stove. “Did you make these quilts here?” he asked.

“No, Granny made them. I don’t have much luck with finishing a quilt.” She laughed to herself. “Neither does my mother. She always has a dozen stitchery projects going, all in various stages of completion. And since I’ve been working on this afghan for almost four years, I’d say it was hereditary.” She paused to sip again at her wine. “Does your mother make quilts and pillows and things?”

“Oh, no. My mother talks.”

“Talks?”

“Talks.” He smiled fondly. “And talks and talks.”

“What does she talk about?”

“The weather, the food, the town, my father, my brother.” He lifted a shoulder. “She talks.”

“But you don’t mind.”

“No. I like her. She’s very kind and warm, my mother. She’s the one who remembers every little thing for the neighbors—everyone’s birthdays, and the grandchildren’s names.”

“That’s how my mother is, too. She always cooks like the dickens when somebody dies.” Lila put aside her knitting and leaned forward, holding her wine between her hands. “But, you know, when my brother died, every woman in town had something for my mother. She didn’t have to cook for a month. And even afterward, when I was in my cast, they would come over to help her with her chores or sit with me.”

“Don’t you miss your big family?”

“Nope.” She sighed. “They drive me crazy—everybody has to mind everybody else’s business. You can’t clip your toenails without somebody giving you advice on which brand of clippers is better.”

Samuel laughed. Not a chuckle, a full, open-mouthed laugh. It showed his strong white teeth and the fine arrangement of lines on his face. “Try it with a whole village of people.”

“I can imagine. No, thanks.” The laugh had sent a ripple down her spine, and now she found herself admiring the fall of his ebony hair and his severe but handsome face. Her eyes lit on the long, slim fingers resting lazily on the table, and she wanted to touch them, feel them again in her hair. Straightening, she asked, “Is that why you’ve chosen to live here instead of there?”

A Gallic shrug. “Not really. I don’t really like to live in Israel.”

“Why?”

He gathered a breath, pursed his lips. “It’s hot. I left when I was nine and spent most of the rest of my childhood in a very green, lush place, with seasons. Since then, I find I don’t like the sun always shining and I don’t like the desert.” He glanced at her. “I think it’s like your Oklahoma. There is nothing subtle about Israel.”

He refilled his glass, then lifted the bottle in Lila’s direction, questioning. Looking down, she was surprised to find she’d polished off the first glass rather quickly, and nodded. Why not?

Except that there was already a dangerous languor settling in her shoulders. As Samuel flipped open his lighter and bent his head toward the flame, she found herself admiring the harsh cut of his chin and the shelf of his tawny collarbone, visible at the opening of his shirt. She found her fingers closing over her palm, which she wanted to open flat along that jaw and that chest.

He glanced at her, the lid of his lighter making an audible click. For a moment he met her gaze solemnly, then blew the pale smoke of his cigarette out hard. “Do you have a chess set or something here?”

“No, I’ve never had any need of a game. But—” she jumped up “—I did promise you a treat.”

“Ah, I’d forgotten. Pie.”

“Not like any you’ve ever had before, I bet.” She gathered her ingredients. “Are you a fan of chess?” she asked, opening a can of cherries.

“Actually it annoys me.”

Lila grinned.

“It’s mathematical, chess,” he said. “That part absorbs me. But I often forget how much intuition is required—and I lose.”

“I never thought of it like that. That must be why I’m able to play so well.”

“Do you?” Faint surprise echoed in his tone.

“My father is a chess champion. He taught me when I was five years old.”

“And he’s a rancher?”

Lila raised her eyebrows. “Anyone ever tell you that you’re a snob?” She spread butter on slices of white bread. “Yes, he was a rancher, and he was a champ. He used to go into town for chess club every Tuesday night. And you know those round-robin things they do, where one guy plays everybody else? He always won.”

“Now I am very disappointed that you have no set here.”

“I could probably make one.” She put two slices of bread each into two heavy iron circles attached to a long handle, then filled one side with cherries and hooked the two pieces together.

“What a contraption,” Samuel commented.

“Wait’ll you see how they turn out.” She squatted in front of the stove and held the pie maker into the heart of the flames, turning it slowly. “When I was little, we used to get raspberries from alongside the creek and make these.” After a minute she stood up and popped open the iron circles. A golden brown, perfectly round pie lay steaming in its cradle. “There’s a napkin right there beside you. Watch out. It’s really hot.”