One Good Turn (22 page)

“Come in,” she invited him, leading him through the entry hall into the living room. “Did you have any trouble finding the place?”

“No,” he said, taking in the room’s austere decor—Danish modern couches and parsons tables, a chilly abstract painting on the wall, not a single house plant. He hastily glanced back at her bare feet. The sight of her cute pink toes reassured him, and he smiled and handed her the wine bottle.

“Thank you.” She returned his smile, then squinted at the label. “Does it go with Mexican food? I picked up a variety of dishes at El Torrito. I hope you like them.”

He trailed her through a dining alcove into an efficient well-applianced kitchen. One pristine white counter was spread with take-out containers which emitted spicy aromas. “It smells great,” he said.

She crossed the room to a cabinet and pulled down two goblets, then produced a corkscrew from a drawer and handed it to Luke. “Why don’t you do the honors while I pop these into the oven?” she suggested as she loosened the lids of the containers. “They could use some heating up.” She organized the containers on a cookie sheet, slid it into the wall oven and adjusted the dials.

She seemed awfully chipper. Whatever her feelings for Luke, she was apparently happy to have him over for dinner. Away from the tensions of work and the misery underlying her cases, perhaps she was able to shed some of her protective shell. Maybe she would recognize that Luke had come here with no preconceptions, no driving needs or macho assumptions, no desire other than to deepen their friendship in whatever way he could.

Maybe, if she let down her guard enough, he might be able to find out where she was hurting, why she seemed lonely, how he could help.

The smile she sent him as she turned from the oven was so bright he was hard pressed to believe she was hurting anywhere at all. Her cheerful expression mesmerized him, warmed him, distracted him so much he fumbled with the corkscrew. “Ow!” he yelled as its sharp point punctured the tip of his index finger.

Clicking her tongue, Jenny glided to the sink. As soon as he was beside her, she positioned his hand under the spout, washed his finger, and toweled it dry. “That corkscrew always jams,” she said contritely, “and then it pops out and stabs you. I think you need a bandage.”

Wrapping the paper towel around his finger, she marched him out of the kitchen and down a short hall to the bathroom. Unlike the living room, the tiny bathroom was filled with warm touches. A wicker shelf above the toilet held a spray of dried flowers and an apothecary jar of bath salts; a plush white terry-cloth robe hung from a hook on the back of the door; the towels bore a vivid rainbow design and a mirrored tray beside the sink held Jenny’s toiletries. She opened the medicine cabinet above the sink and rummaged in it for antiseptic and bandages.

He scanned the shelves in front of him, aiding her search. His gaze snagged on a plastic disk containing a circular arrangement of pills. Birth control pills. The realization zapped through him like a jolt of electricity.

One part of him responded with excitement that she was prepared, that if by some quirk of fate things heated up between her and Luke tonight, she would be ready. Yet he felt a strange disappointment, as well. He remembered the night they’d become lovers, when they’d exuberantly depleted her roommate’s supply of condoms. There had been something innocent about Jenny then, something unpremeditated and natural. The circular container of pills in her medicine cabinet forced him, once more, to acknowledge how much time had gone by, how much Jenny had changed.

It was a ridiculous reaction, totally unjustifiable. But he couldn’t help himself.

“There you go,” she said, reminding him that while he’d been lost in thought she’d been taping his finger. “I’ll send you the bill.”

“Don’t worry—I’m insured,” he joked.

They returned to the kitchen, where he concentrated on uncorking the wine bottle without further injury. By the time he’d filled the two goblets and handed one to Jenny, his smile felt natural.

“Let’s go out on the deck,” she suggested, leaving the kitchen for the dining alcove, one wall of which contained glass sliders opening onto her terrace. “It’ll be a few minutes before dinner’s ready.” She stepped into a pair of leather sandals by the door, slid it open, and led Luke outside.

Her terrace overlooked the reservoir. The surface of the water was glass-smooth, reflecting the verdant woods surrounding it and the cloudless sky above it. “It’s a beautiful view,” he commented, moving past the deck furniture to the railing and leaning against it.

“The view is the nicest thing about this apartment,” she said, and he had to agree. Joining him at the railing, she took a sip of her wine. “This is good.”

Belatedly, he tapped his glass against hers. “Here’s to your spectacular performance in court.”

She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “We should be drinking to Trisha Vincent. She was the one doing all the hard work today.”

Luke consumed some wine and studied the woman beside him. Her modesty didn’t seem false, yet he saw no reason for it. “It amazes me,” he remarked, “to think you almost didn’t become a lawyer. You really are good at it.”

She snorted.

“I wouldn’t have been anywhere near as good.”

“I bet you’re a wonderful teacher.”

He considered, then confirmed her guess with a nod. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

“Tell me about it. Are you tough with the kids? Do they think you’re cool? Do all the girls get crushes on you?”

He laughed. “If they do they don’t mention it to me.”

“Do you wear tweeds and make your students read the great books?”

“God, no. That would be boring.” He ruminated for a moment. “I’m more of a gonzo-style teacher, I guess. Social studies can be dull if you don’t juice it up.”

“How do you juice it up?”

“Well...for example, in the class I teach on Third World studies, we play a game called `Who Gets the Bomb?’ Each of the kids is named the leader of a different Third World country, and each of them has access to a single nuclear warhead. They have to research their countries and decide who their worst enemy is—who gets the bomb.”

“That’s grotesque!” Jenny scolded, although she was laughing.

“They learn a lot—not only about their country’s history and politics but also about the repercussions of their decision. Some of them actually decide to dismantle their bombs, once they’ve come to terms with the devastation they could cause. Last spring I had a real slick kid who decided to sell his bomb to one of the other kids for ten million dollars, which just about doubled his country’s GNP.”

“It sounds like he’s got a future in government.”

“You’d better believe it. He wanted me to help him get a summer job on Capitol Hill, like the one I had in Senator Milford’s office. He’s too young—I couldn’t do much for him. But he’s going places, for better or worse.”

Jenny turned to face Luke. Her eyes were still bright, sparkling with intelligence and energy, and her hair was lustrous with coppery streaks in the fading sunlight. “I’m so glad you became a teacher,” she said earnestly, all traces of amusement gone. “You seem...content.”

“It’s all because of you,” he said, adopting her tone. If she wanted to talk seriously, if she wanted to bump up against the past, that was fine with him. “I don’t know if I’ve thanked you for everything you did for me back then.”

“I didn’t give you of a chance to thank me,” she muttered, lowering her eyes.

“Then give me a chance now.” He slid his thumb under her chin and tilted her head back so she had to meet his gaze. “Thank you. For everything.”

“I didn’t do all that much,” she said.

“You just opened my eyes and put my head on straight and saved my life.”

“And then vanished.”

“Vanished,” he agreed, startled by her unflinching honesty. “And then reappeared.” Without shifting his eyes from hers, he placed his glass on the glass-topped table, then eased her glass from her hand and set it down beside his. He slid one arm around her waist and lifted his other hand to twine his fingers through the glossy silk of her hair.

He hadn’t come here for this, and if she made the merest show of resistance he would back off. He waited, giving her the opportunity to rebuff him.

Her eyes remained locked with his, glittering with emotions he couldn’t interpret. Her body remained inches from his; her shoulders remained proudly square. The only sign of nervousness in her was her breath, which became short and shallow.

His respiration was uneven, too. His heart was pounding. Simply imagining what was about to happen put his nervous system on alert.

He leaned toward her. She didn’t stop him.

Her lips were so soft, soft and velvety against his. Exercising restraint, he concentrated solely on them, brushing and stroking them with his mouth, not daring to venture further.

Her eyelids fluttered but stayed open, her gaze still fixed on him. She raised her hands to his sides and arched her fingers along his ribs. It would take little effort on her part to push him away.

She didn’t.

He slid his arm more snugly around her, pulling her a fraction of an inch closer. He angled his head. Gently, he nipped her lower lip.

She moaned and closed her eyes. Her fingertips dug into his sides.

Oh, God, he wanted her. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted a woman before. More, even, than he’d wanted her seven years ago. He felt her self-protective layers melting like ice beneath the sun, liquefying and slipping away, bathing him with the promise of more.

His tongue danced across her lips, and with another helpless moan she opened her mouth. He stole inside, tasting, drinking her in, devouring her. His body grew taut and his arms drew her fully to himself, letting her know exactly what she was doing to him, exactly how much he desired her.

With a cry, she jerked her head away. The sudden motion caused him to release her, and she stumbled back from him. Her eyes blazed with panic and she pressed her knuckles to her mouth. Her breath came in labored gasps and her cheeks went from crimson to waxy white in the fraction of a second.

What? What went wrong?

“The dinner,” she mumbled vaguely, darting toward the sliding glass door. “I’d better go check the dinner.”

And once again, she vanished.

ALONE IN THE KITCHEN
, she headed straight for the sink, turned on the cold water and doused her face. Her lungs hurt from the deep, ragged breaths she was taking, and her legs were rubbery. She felt sick and weak and despicable.

The amazing thing, she realized as the splashes of icy water shocked her brain back into a lucid state, was that she hadn’t minded Luke’s kiss at first. She had almost enjoyed it.

For the first time in seven years, she had actually enjoyed kissing a man.

She’d reveled in the subtle persuasion of his lips, their warmth, their life. She’d experienced pleasure as he’d raveled his fingers into her hair, as he’d closed his arms around her. Her body had been suffused with a strange glow, a sensation of tingling expectation that seemed to stir awake in some distant, long suppressed region of her soul.

Then he’d shifted, pulling her closer and pressing into her. She’d felt his erection, demanding and unbearably male, and all that sweet, syrupy pleasure had shriveled up into a dry, withered knot of fear. She’d had to run. She couldn’t deal with this.

Some things were simply beyond her ability to manage.

She heard the distant sound of the glass door sliding shut. Then Luke’s voice from the kitchen doorway: “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” she said, still hunched over the sink, hiding her face from him, feeling cowardly and queasy. “Dinner’s ready.” Mustering what little strength she had, she turned from the sink, carefully keeping her back to Luke, and walked to the oven to turn it off.

He didn’t speak. His silence magnified every other sound in the room. She heard the dull pop of the wine bottle being reopened, the slosh of the glasses being refilled, the squeak of the oven door’s hinge as she shoved it shut.

She wondered why he didn’t just take off, get out of her life, find himself a normal woman.

He wanted to know. That was why he’d come here, why he kept showing up, kept spending time with her. They had once loved each other intensely, and that love was gone, and he wanted to know why. If only it didn’t hurt so much to talk about it, if only she weren’t so determined to let the past recede into shadow and put a good face on the present, if only she wasn’t so damned afraid...

She had never testified. Now, seven years later, before a jury of one, perhaps it was time.

She put the steaming dinner entrees on a tray and brought them into the dining area, where she’d set the table for two. Luke followed her, carrying the wine glasses. They took their seats, facing each other across the table. He watched her, attentive, patient, wary.

You have nothing to hide.
She was haunted by her own words, words spoken to give Trisha the strength to testify.
You have nothing to be ashamed of.

“I was raped,” she said.

“I KNOW.”

Jenny stared at him. “When did you figure it out?”

“Three minutes ago,” he said. “When you broke from me and ran inside.”

She dropped her gaze to the feast arrayed before her—enchiladas, tamales, quesadillas, rice and guacamole. She had no appetite. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

“Sorry?”

“I should have told you before.”

After a pause, he nodded. “It would have clarified a lot.”

“Oh?”

“The way you’ve been handling your court case, for instance,” he elaborated. “The way you get so riled up when you talk about it.” He lifted his glass to his lips, swallowed some wine, and added, “The way you dropped out of my life.”

“I had to, Luke, I—”

“I know. You broke down. I’m not criticizing you, Jenny, so stop apologizing.” He tempered his blunt words by extending his hand across the table to hers, covering it, stroking his thumb against her wrist. “If you’d been mugged...I could believe you would suffer emotionally, but I don’t think you would have cut me off like that. A rape, though... It’s different.”