Tempest in Eden (2 page)

"Yes, Celia told me you were coming, but she said you wouldn't be here until later this evening. And as for what you could have done to prevent both of us from being embarrassed, you could have left the room immediately instead of standing there like a voyeur at a peep show."

Shay was delighted as he lowered his dark, shaggy brows over his luminescent eyes, revealing his anger, "I wasn't embarrassed," she said simply.

"You should have been."

"Why? Are you ashamed of your body? Do you think the human form is something dirty and shameful?"

He ground his startlingly white teeth together. "No."

"Then if it's not nakedness that upset you, it must have been me. Don't you like women?"

She flashed him a gamine smile and dropped into a chair. Bracing the heels of her hands on the seat between her knees, she leaned forward inquiringly. She knew the position was provocative. It pushed her breasts, unrestrained under the T-shirt, together to form a deep cleft between them. The cotton shirt wasn't sheer, but it conformed to her shape, leaving little to the imagination. In retrospect, she might be ashamed of herself, but at the moment a demonic sense of humor prompted her to goad his temper, which she knew lay very close to the surface.

With seeming disinterest, he turned to the cupboard and took down a coffee mug. "I like some women," he stated with an emphasis on
some.

Trying to squelch her own rising temper, she snapped, "Just not the honest, independent, free-thinking ones. I can well imagine the type you like—meek and submissive." She rose from the chair and stalked angrily around the kitchen. She was angry at him for his indifference, and at herself for caring about it.

"Look, I said I was sorry," she said impatiently. "I don't know why you're making a federal case out of this. I saw you naked. So? If you'd had the chance, you'd have taken a good long look at me or any other woman, and don't even try to deny it. And your mind would have flown to thoughts much more intimate than mine."

"I haven't been intimate with any woman but my wife."

"You're married?" she asked, looking around in surprise, thinking she might see a ladylike, long-suffering, insipid creature materialize. Strange. She hadn't even considered the possibility that he might have a wife. She was sure her mother hadn't mentioned one.

"I was married."

"Divorced?" she asked.

"No. My wife's dead."

Her desire to provoke him took one last gasping breath and died. Her teasing smile faded into a shattered, pale expression of deep embarrassment and remorse. Slowly she sat back down in the chair. Unseeingly she stared through the screened back door. A nondescript station wagon was parked just beyond the porch. It hadn't been visible from the front of the house where she'd parked.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. The only noise in the room was the gurgle of steaming coffee as he poured it into a mug. "Mom didn't tell me anything about you. I didn't know."

"Sugar?"

Her head came up to meet his stunning blue eyes. "Pardon?"

"Sugar.For your coffee."

"Oh, no … no. But cream or milk, please," she said, taking the mug from his outstretched hand. He went to the refrigerator and removed a carton of half-and-half, which he set on the table within her reach. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he said formally, pouring himself some coffee. He took a seat across the table. For long moments he said nothing, only stared at the landscape through the windows and blew gently on his coffee to cool it before taking hesitant sips. At last he said quietly, "A drunk driver ran into us broadside one night. She was killed instantly. I walked away without a scratch. It's been almost two years. Better to tell people straight out. It saves them from asking and spares me having to answer."

Again a heavy silence ensued. Shay's love of life and everything in it was offended by such a waste of a valued human being. Her heart went out to the man who had suffered a senseless loss. She felt compelled to let him know she wasn't a stranger to heartache. "I was married, but it ended in divorce," she said thoughtfully. "Now we're a statistic. One of the thousands."

"As is Mary."

"Yes." Shay drank her coffee slowly. Covertly she eyed him over the rim of her mug. In profile, his features looked more stern then they did face on. Perhaps it was the brilliance of his eyes that relieved some of the rigidity of his jaw and chin. Were those eyes what had compelled her to mention her unfortunate marriage? She never talked about the episode in her life to anyone. It was a closed subject. She had erased the memory, if not the pain, had even gone back to using her maiden name. Yet she had spoken of it to Ian Douglas. Why should a man she had just met inspire such confidence?

"Where do you live?" he asked at last, as if to fill the silent void.

"In Woodville, near Greenwich. It's small. Mostly commuters to New York live there."

"What do you do?"

His eyes were incredibly blue, and she found it hard to keep her mind on the subject. "Do?" she repeated, distracted. The doltish vagueness in her voice yanked her back into the present. "Do? Oh, I work in a gallery. We carry inexpensive works of art, decorating items, things like that."

"In Manhattan?"

"No, in Woodville. When I have to go to the city, I drive to Greenwich and take the train. But that's only once or twice a week."

"Once or twice a week? What takes you to New York once or twice a week?"

"I—"

She was cut off by the loud blaring of an automobile horn. They turned simultaneously to see a Mercedes sedan coming to a stop beside Ian's station wagon. As Shay watched, a silver-haired man got out of the driver's side, came around to the passenger side, and offered his hand to Celia. Her mother smiled happily as she took her husband's hand. He planted a soft kiss on her mouth before ushering her toward the back door.

Ian was there to greet them, holding the screen door open. "I thought my hostess and host had abandoned me," he said, slapping his father on the back. "Hi, Dad. Celia," he said more gently, leaning down to kiss her proffered cheek.

"Sorry we're so late getting back. Celia had an extensive grocery list. I hope you're hungry." John Douglas's eyes swept the room until they lighted on Shay. "Hello. You must be Shay."

"Darling, I'm so glad you came." Her mother extricated herself from John's arms and hurried to embrace her daughter. "How are you?"

"Fine," Shay said into her mother's soft, carefully coiffed brown hair. She hugged her gently and gazed down into a face that reflected deep joy. Smiling broadly, she said, "I don't need to ask how you are. You're positively radiant."

"And all because of John," her mother said in the soft voice of an enthralled young girl. Stretching out her hand to clasp his, she pulled him forward. "John, this is my daughter Shay."

With no compunction, he took both her hands in his and let his eyes, a disturbingly familiar blue, roam freely over her face. "Shay, you're as beautiful as your mother." He kissed her on the cheek. "Forgive an aging man his impatience, but I was so eager to give my name to your mother, I wouldn't allow her the time to organize a formal wedding."

Shay smiled warmly at him. "You've made her very happy. I'd rather be a witness to that than the exchanging of vows."

"She's brought me more happiness than I ever thought to know again. You're welcome in our home anytime."

"Thank you."

He squeezed her hands once more before releasing them and turning toward Ian. "I see that you've met my son."

"Yes," Shay said, her eyes dancing with reawakened mischief. "I already feel like I know him very well."

"I'm so glad," Celia gushed. "John and I wanted the two of you to become close friends."

"You'd be amazed at how close I feel to him," Shay replied meaningfully. Her mother glanced at her warily, and Shay was immediately contrite. She knew that her impish grin and salty tone alerted Celia that she was up to something. Having seen first-hand the happiness this marriage had brought her mother, she didn't want to do anything to spoil it. Putting her devious bent aside, she said humbly, "Ian and I were having a nice getting-acquainted discussion when you drove up."

"Yes," Ian said. After a significant pause he added, "We were discussing how one's conscience
should
be one's guide."

"Oh!" Shay choked on her coffee in startled outrage, her head coming up with a snap. She glared at him. "My conscience isn't one bit offended."

"Then maybe you should examine your morals."

"Ian…" John Douglas began uneasily.

"Oh, dear," said Celia. "And I was so hoping—"

"My morals are in great shape," Shay retorted, tilting her head back to look directly into Ian's face.

"You couldn't prove it by me."

"I don't need to prove anything to you," she snapped. She barely heard her mother's plea to calm herself. "I've never put much merit in the narrow-minded, pious, petty opinions of self-righteous prigs like you." Her breasts heaved with anger as she stared up into his chiseled face, gone hard with rage. "Excuse me," Shay said, moving swiftly toward the door. "I'm going to shower and change before dinner."

She stomped up the stairs and ran the coldest water she could stand. But, rather than calming her, the shower fueled her agitation. "What a boor," she muttered as she dressed in a swirling skirt and peasant blouse of printed muslin. The soft, sheer fabric felt good against her skin as she lifted her arms to sweep her hair into a careless topknot. She let several curling tendrils lie with beguiling negligence on her neck and cheeks.

Ian Douglas represented everything she disdained. He was judgmental, stodgy, unyielding in what he considered to be the rules of propriety. He looked upon people like her with stern disapproval for their liberated outlook on life.

After nearly thirty years, she couldn't change herself, nor did she want to. Her father had been the only one who'd ever understood her. He alone had encouraged her independent nature, her liberal tolerance, her freethinking, her mischievous personality. When he had died, she'd lost not only a loving parent, but also her closest friend and staunchest ally.

She missed him still. He had been a physician, a man admired by his patients and constituents, adored and pampered by his wife, and loved by his daughter. They had shared a rare relationship, open and honest. While her mother had always been reluctant to discuss certain aspects of life with her daughter, Shay's father had always gone to great lengths to answer her every precocious question in detail. He had found her curiosity refreshing and entertaining, and had admired and encouraged her acceptance of other people, no matter what their lifestyles or philosophies. To those who had criticized her sometimes unorthodox behavior, he had defended her as being forthright and unpretentious.

Above all, Shay hated narrow-mindedness and those who would impose their brand of stuffy, stodgy, supercilious prudery on others. She tagged Ian Douglas as one of that breed. She only wished he looked more the part he played: with a nose that seemed perpetually turned up in distaste, myopic eyes that searched out indiscretions, and a pointed chin. Somehow it was hard to hate a flawless body that defined masculinity and a face that would have made Narcissus weep with envy.

It suddenly struck her that she was being unusually harsh and judgmental herself, jumping to conclusions about a man she'd only just met, but she pushed the thought aside impatiently.

"To hell with him," she said flippantly as she doused herself with a seductive scent. "I didn't ask for his opinion. I don't care what he thinks of me. Once this weekend is over, I don't ever have to see him again."

With that attitude, she descended the stairs. John and Ian were sitting in easy chairs, sipping chilled white wine from tulip-shaped glasses. "Shay," John called out, standing up, "come join us for a glass of wine."

She beamed at him and ignored his scowling son. "No thank you, John. I'm sure Mom can use my help in the kitchen." With a saucy swirl of her skirt, she pushed through the swinging door.

"What can I do?" she asked cheerfully. Her mother was bending down to pull a heavy casserole from the oven.

Her cheeks flushed becomingly from the heat of the stove, Celia turned around and sighed with despair. "You can march right upstairs and put on a bra, that's what you can do." Hands on hips, wearing a ruffled bibbed apron, her hair mussed, Celia Douglas looked anything but commanding.

"Why?" Shay asked breezily, going to the relish tray and popping an olive into her mouth.

Celia sputtered her answer. "Because … because I can see your … dew drops."

Shay nearly sucked the olive down her throat as she gasped a laugh.
"Dew drops?"
When she caught her breath, her eyes were dancing with mirth. "They're called nipples, mother. Nipples. And every woman since Eve has had them. They're part of the female anatomy. God created them. They're nothing to be ashamed of."

"They're nothing to flaunt either," Celia said with another weary sigh, conceding the argument, as she always did, to her daughter's winning pragmatism. "What will John and Ian think of you?"

Shay's grin melted, and she frowned. She went to the window and looked out at the lovely twilight-washed landscape. Unwittingly her mother had disarmed her in the most effective way. Shay was reminded of divided loyalties, personality conflicts, and failures to please. In her entire life, had she made anyone proud of her? "Are you ashamed of me, Mother?" she asked quietly.

"Oh, Shay," her mother said with instant remorse. "Of course not, darling." She came to her daughter quickly and placed a slender arm around her waist. "It's just that I wanted this to be a fun weekend with as little tension as possible. You've already had a run-in with Ian. By the way, what happened?"

"Nothing much. Just an instant, total, and unalterable dislike for each other." Shay saw no reason to explain the episode that afternoon any further.

"And you certainly didn't keep your aversion to yourself." Sighing, her mother released her and continued getting the dinner ready for serving. "When will you learn some decorum, Shay? I told your father he was courting disaster when he exercised no restraint in letting you see and hear things that a properly brought-up young lady should never be exposed to. He was far too liberal in his thinking, and it rubbed off on you."