Mr. Write (Sweetwater) (37 page)

Her father sat his glass on the table.  “When my wife took ill, we ended up with a lot of medical expenses.  I struggled, trying to keep everything together.  I fell behind a couple months on the rent.  I called the agent, tried to explain, see if I could work something out.  Next thing I know there’s a bailiff at the door with an eviction notice.
  Knowing I was losing my wife was devastating.  Lying to her, with her laying there in the hospital, about being able to keep the roof over our kids’ heads was unmanning.  And I might be a simple man, but I’ve got pride, and I’ve got a brain.  And being out on the water leaves plenty of thinking time.  And more to the point, I’ve never quite forgiven the landlord for forcing that eviction.”

“Shit,” Tucker rubbed a hand down his face
.  “My grandfather owns it, doesn’t he?”

“Your brain works some quicker than mine does.”

Sarah wished she could ease the turmoil she sensed brewing inside him.  “Daddy, I understand your feelings, your concerns, but as you can see, none of this has anything to do with Tucker.”

“I don’t need you to defend me, Sarah.”

“I simply wanted to –”

“Don’t.”
But he squeezed her hand before he faced her father.  “I’m not going to apologize for my grandfather.  That would suggest I have some tie, some responsibility to or for him that simply isn’t there.  But I can tell you that, if he comes back around, this Linville asshole won’t touch her.”

“You know what?” 
After a long moment, her father nodded.  “You might be a Yankee.  And you might be a Pettigrew. But I think I might like you, after all.”

HE
liked John Barnwell, too, but not nearly as much after the man decided to stay on an extra couple days and sleep on Sarah’s porch bed.

Tucker didn’t think of himself as particularly oversexed.  He enjoyed sex
, was always happy to get it. But he wasn’t the type to turn twitchy if he had to do without.

On the third day of her father’s visit, Tucker cornered Sarah in her office.

She looked up from behind the battered old desk, surprised, when he rapped his knuckles on the door.  A sleek little laptop hummed in front of her, with two tidy stacks of papers at her elbow. Her gaze was a little fuzzy, the way it was when you’d been interrupted. Evening sunlight streamed through the open blinds at her back, setting her hair to gold-tipped flame. 

There was a pencil tucked behind her ear.

“Tucker.”  Her voice was distracted.  “Hey.  I was just…” she gestured at the papers “going through some invoices.”

“I know.”  He shut the door behind him.
  And casually flipped the lock.  “Allie let me in, told me you were back here.  She said to tell you that she had to get home.  She’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Oh.”  She glanced at her watch.  “It’s later than I thought.
  I’ve been sort of putting things off, what with my father here, so I’m playing catch up.”  She smiled vaguely.  “You want some coffee?  I brewed a pot to get me through the paperwork.  You’re welcome to help yourself.”

“I don’t want coffee.”

“Oh.  Okay.  Well…” The look on his face must have finally gotten through.  “No.  Oh no.”  She spread her arms protectively over the paperwork.  “I am not having sex with you on this desk.”

“Who said anything about the desk?”

“Knowing your penchant for hard horizontal surfaces, I… Tucker!”  She scrambled, rather comically, out of the chair when he advanced.  “My father is practically right outside that window.”

“He’s napping on your back porch.”

“You
spied
on him?” Using the chair like a shield, she pointed the pencil at him.

“I saw him
from my office.”  And had wasted no time shutting his computer down.  The man, after all, was like a hawk.  “Just remember how exciting it was when you were a teenager sneaking boys into your room.”

“I never snuck a boy into my room.”

He paused.  “Really?”

“I was
a virgin until I was twenty-three.”

“Really.”

Intrigued, Tucker feinted left.
Then grabbed Sarah when she tried to dart past him.  She squealed, laughing and cursing him in equal parts as he pinned her with his arms.

“You really are repressed.”

“What I am is hardworking, motivated by things other than my glands, and very selective.”

“I had you in bed inside of a month.”

“Clearly, I lost my head.”

“Lose it again.”  More turned on than he cared to admit, Tucker lowered her to the rug.

And did his best to relieve her of any lingering inhibitions.

UTTERLY
spent, Sarah lay partially beneath Tucker’s weight.

And thought,
Wow. 
Wow
.

Her muscles were like water, her skin throbbing vaguely where he’d bitten her neck.

He’d
bitten
her.  And she wanted him to do it again.

With a groan, he rolled off of her, sat up.  And as he ran his fingers through the hair she’d tangled with her hands, winced when he spotted her neck.  “Jesus.”  His tone was hard, but his fingers gentle as he touched what she thought might turn into a light, but interesting, bruise.  “I’m sorry, Sarah.  I got a little carried away.”

“’s okay.”  She needed water.  And maybe an extra hand to pat herself on the back.  She’d just had sex on her office rug.  And it had been
spectacular.

“I’m thirsty,” she mumbled.

“You want that coffee?”

“Water.”  She rolled onto her back.  “A gallon of it.”

With a smile that managed to be both indulgent and smug, Tucker patted her hip.  “I’ll get it.  You look like you need another minute to recover from not being motivated by your glands.”

“Smartass,
” she called after him as he pulled on his clothes and sauntered out.  But she felt too satisfied to be annoyed with him. 

Her eyes drifted closed, and a
t the sound of ringing, it took her a moment to realize it was the phone, and not her ears.  It was after hours.  She should just let the machine pick up.

But it could be her father
, wondering when she’d be done.  And at the thought of what she’d just been doing, Sarah winced.

Pushing herself to sitting, she fumbled the cordless out of its cradle on her desk.
  And tried to sound like a woman who hadn’t just had spectacular sex on the middle of her office rug.

“The Dust Jacket, this is Sarah speaking.  Hello?” she said when she heard only heavy breathing.  Rolling her eyes, she nearly hung up.

“I knew you were a bitch.”  The breathing got heavier.

“What?  Who is this?”  But she knew.  She was afraid that she knew.  “Jonas
.”  Her voice dripped with disgust.  “A little old for obscene phone calls, aren’t you?”  

“You fuck just like one.  Like a dog in heat.”

Cold, suddenly cold all over, Sarah shot up, wrapped her arm around her legs.  And looked out the window. 

Nothing there.  No one out there.  But she crawled behind the desk.

“Look, I don’t know what your issue is.”  She waited a beat until she could keep her voice calm.  Until she could be reasonable.  “But you need to stop.  We’re not kids anymore, Jonas, and if you keep it up, they’re going to consider it harassment.”

“Oh, I’m keeping it up alright.”  When he laughed,
panted, it made her skin crawl.  “I’ve got it up right now.”

“You’re disgusting.”  Before she could slam the phone down, he delivered his parting shot.

“Sarah?” And moaned.  “I’m thinking about biting you while I come.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

TUCKER
stood on the dock, watching the river eddy by in lazy currents.  The late afternoon sky was the bruised sort of blue that he’d come to identify with gathering thunderstorms, and so vast as it stretched over the undulating water that he couldn’t believe it was the same atmosphere he’d lived under in New York.

His parents had grown up with this sky. And when he thought about it
, he couldn’t imagine how his quiet, sunny mother had been able to keep her sanity in the city.  So much noise, so many people. And a sky that was mostly blocked by human construction. 

But she’d loved the cultural vibe, too – the museums, the galleries, the shows.  Tucker had grown up in crowded public libraries instead of open air. He’d learned to appreciate performance art instead of learning how
to depreciate rental properties. 

Tucker
wondered, not for the first time, if he would have been the same person if his dad had lived.  Would his father have respected the artist’s soul that lived in the brawler’s body?  Or like his grandfather, would he have tried to turn him into just another reflection of himself?

He liked to think his dad would have been proud of him, regardless.  But since this river had taken him from them, there was no way to know.

Tucker heard the soft sound of a paddle cutting through the water, and lifted a hand to shield his eyes against the sun.  The relief was so strong that it spewed out as irritation.

“You’re starting to look like those shrimp we boiled.”

Sarah glanced down at the pinkened skin exposed by her tank top.  “It got a little warmer than I expected.”  She maneuvered the kayak closer to the dock with the ease of long practice.  He couldn’t see her expression, because she was wearing both a cap and sunglasses, but it was easy enough to hear the distance in her tone. “You would think that I should know to always apply sunscreen by now, even this late in the day, but…”

She shrugged,
and Tucker tamped down his frustration.  She’d been shutting him out ever since he’d tugged the phone away from her in her office and used it to call the police.  

“You always take off
like that when a storm’s coming in?” 

“
Got a little time yet.”  She glanced at the thickening sky as the red kayak bumped against the dock.  “And anyway, I grew up on this river.  My father had paddles and fishing poles in mine and Noah’s hands before we could walk.”  She began looping a rope around the dock cleat to secure the small craft. Tucker stepped forward to help, though it quickly became apparent that he was more of a hindrance.  His hands felt big, unusually clumsy.  When she stood up, wobbling, he snapped “Watch yourself,” and reached for her.  The current slapped at the kayak with dirty, wet hands.

Sarah grasped his outstretched arm. Instead of yanking her against him and kissing som
e sense into her as he wanted, Tucker set her on her feet.  They hauled up the kayak together, and Sarah slid it onto a rack with several others that her brother used for tours.  Her heels hung over the edge of the dock as she secured a couple fastenings.  One of her feet nearly slipped, and Tucker couldn’t stand it any longer.  With a soft curse, he pulled her away from the water.

“You’re jumpy,” she said with cool amusement.  “What’s wrong?  Can’t swim?”             

“Like a fish.”  His voice was flat.  “My mother saw to that.”

“Oh, Tucker.” 
Distressed, she took off her sunglasses as she turned around.  “That was thoughtless of me.  I’m sorry.”

He
didn’t want her pity.  “You haven’t returned my last couple calls.”

She busied herself with tying the sleeves of
a green anorak around her waist.  “There’s been a lot going on.  I haven’t had time.”

“That’s
the dog ate my homework
of excuses.”

“Okay.”  Her head came up, and there was finally something besides reserve in her expression.  “I haven’t wanted to.  How’s that?”

“At least it’s honest.”

She started to brush past him, but he grabbed her arm again.  “
You know I had to call the cops, Sarah.”

“I didn’t say otherwise.”

“No, you haven’t said much at all.”  A spark of temper ignited in his voice.  “Which is my
point
.
”

S
he pressed her fingertips against her eyelids.  And when her chin started to quiver, Tucker could only think
Shit.

“Don’t touch me.”  She slapped at his reaching hands.
  But he dodged, persevered, and gathered her against his chest.  The sounds she made – small wounded sounds, like an animal caught in a trap – were so far removed from the other time she’d cried that he knew these came from someplace deep.

He felt impotent.  Unmanned.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, for lack of anything better.  To think he made his living with words. 

“I feel violated.”

“I understand.”

“He took something private, something lovely, and made it dirty.”

“No.”  Squeezing her shoulders, he eased her back.  Her eyes looked raw, her face ravaged.  “It wasn’t dirty.”