Tempest in Eden (5 page)

"Was it in or out?" he called graciously from his side. Was he daring her to cheat and say it was out?

"In," she called back.

"I thought so."

Her mouth was set with firm determination when she applied all her strength to her next serve. It bounced with a spin in the corner of the box and ricocheted in the opposite direction. She didn't have time to gloat. The ball, parallel to the ground, shot like a fighter jet back across the net. She swung wildly, missing it by several feet.

Ian acted far too casual as he twirled his racket like a baton and whistled under his breath. So, she'd been suckered again. Was there such a thing as a tennis shark? Well, there was nothing to do but make the most of it, stay on her toes, and play as well as she could against an obviously superior player.

Though her serves were good, she scored only one point, and that one she felt Ian had given her. Not out of charity. The wicked arch of his brows told her he knew exactly what he was doing. He had given her the point only to heighten her mounting aggravation.

"My serve," he said after he'd won the game.

"I know the rules."

His grin was wide, disarming, charming; she wanted nothing more than to wipe it from his mouth.

"Bad loser?" he taunted.

"Just serve the damn ball."

He shrugged, overlooking her curse word. "Okay."

She never saw it. She saw his arm arc high over his head, saw him go up on his toes, saw his torso stretch, saw his arm sweep downward. The next thing she knew the ball was spinning away from her at a crazy angle.

"Fifteen love," he said in a deadpan voice. She would have much preferred him to shout with glee.

The next serve was just as hard, just as fast, just as lethal. "You're serving too hard," she shouted at him.

"You're not watching the ball. Keep your eye on the ball."

"The ball is a blur," she mumbled under her breath as she assumed her position.

"What did you say?" he called politely, postponing his serve.

"Nothing. Just serve."

The next shot flew dangerously close to her head. "Dammit, you're serving too hard! That thing could have killed me," she shouted.

"You're only mad because I'm aceing you. Do you want to quit?"

"No. But I'm not a target. Don't serve it so hard."

She could tell by his reach that the next one would be worse than the others. Furious, she dropped her racket and spun on her heels. "I'm not going to play anymore with a potential murderer."

Ian didn't have time to curb his momentum. He had overshot his mark, and the ball didn't even bounce before it slammed into the soft cushion of flesh that was Shay's behind.

She cried out sharply. Tears sprang to her eyes. The shocking pain made her nauseous. Her vision blurred. Pain, hunger, and too much sun all combined. She fell ignominiously onto the asphalt in a dead faint.

Chapter Three

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"
I
'm sorry, I'm so sorry. Shay, please forgive m me. I didn't mean to hurt you."

The words were low and urgent, whispered and soothing. They fell on her ears like cool raindrops and coaxed her back to consciousness.

Not yet. She didn't want to open her eyes yet. For a self-indulgent moment she wanted to be coddled, held against the solid wall of this magnificent chest. She loved feeling his chin moving over her head. Her cheek and nose were being pressed into his damp, warm neck. He smelled of male perspiration mingling with a brisk cologne. That scent, the heat emanating from him, the hand that stroked her hair, and the lulling voice induced her not to awaken from her faint. It was far more pleasant to remain helpless and protected.

"I'm sorry, so sorry."

They were on the grass. She could feel it beneath her bare legs. Ian must have carried her off the court and cradled her in his arms as he sat down on the early summer grass, soft and green. How marvelous it was to be held securely in strong arms. Had she been given the choice, she might have chosen to stay there forever with his deep voice vibrating through her body with each heartfelt word and his hand—

She became aware of his hand. Not the one stroking her hair comfortingly. The other one. It was gently rubbing the area of her injury. Under her short skirt, with only the red tennis trunks between them, he was massaging her derrière. Gently he squeezed her, then his hand flattened, and he rubbed her with a slow, circular motion of his palm. And all the while he murmured his regret for having bruised and hurt her with his deadly serve.

She allowed her hand to wander up his ribs to clutch at the breast pocket of his knit shirt. The contoured muscles flexed and hardened beneath her hand. Then she lifted the screen of dark lashes from her eyes, and she was looking directly into his eyes. Their faces were inches apart as he bent over her.

He sighed his relief and closed his eyes for a brief instant before asking in a hushed voice, "Are you all right?"

She nodded, captivated by his nearness and the fragrant ghost of his breath which drifted across her face. "Yes."

"Shay, please forgive me. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"I know." Why was she willing to absolve him so readily? She should be as mad as hell. Instead she was lying here, a victim of delicious lassitude, forgiving him with the benevolent generosity of a saint. To rail at him for his brutal game, which had finally resulted in her getting hurt, would require that she move away from him. Then he wouldn't be looking at her with unspeakable tenderness. His fingertips wouldn't be gliding over the features of her face as though he adored them. His other hand wouldn't be caressing—for there was no other word to describe the rhythmic stroking—the round fullness of her hip that even now throbbed with the impact of the rocketing tennis ball.

He couldn't forgive himself so easily. "I was well into the serve, watching the ball. I didn't see that you'd turned around until it was too late." He touched her cheek. "I'm sorry. I wouldn't have hurt you for anything in the world."

"But you were showing off," she said softly with a teasing smile.

"I was showing off," he admitted self-deprecatingly.

He grinned, and her heart expanded behind her breasts, causing them to swell and tingle. They were suddenly bursting with sensations she'd thought long dead. She'd buried those feelings after her marriage had ended in failure. Was that glorious breathlessness really there? Was it due to the accident or caused by something else much more significant?

He was gorgeous, if that adjective could be used on such a masculine face. Against the azure summer sky, which accented the color of his eyes, his hair shone raven black. Drawn into jagged furrows, his dark brows expressed his concern for her. A beautifully shaped nose, which was straight and slender only to flare slightly at the nostrils, formed a perfect bridge between his compelling eyes and sensuous lips. Shay wondered if the women in his congregation found it difficult to concentrate on the spirituality of his sermons as they watched that mobile mouth form the words.

The hip that wasn't being soothed by his hand rested in his lap. Beneath her bare thigh, she could feel his. It was hard and warm. The springy hairs that bristled from it tickled her skin. He had raised one knee to support her back. Her lightheadedness returned when she realized that her naked back was lying along his thigh.

Her eyes roamed avariciously over his face. She wanted to take as much advantage of the moment as she could. "You play tennis very well," she said, barely recognizing her own voice. It came through her lips like a seductive shadow.

He didn't answer for a long time. His eyes were doing their fair share of greedy touring. He catalogued each of her features: brow, eyes, and nose came under his avid gaze. Then his eyes rested on her mouth and stayed. And stayed. They were still there when he said throatily, "Championship tennis team in college."

For long, portentous moments they didn't say anything, only looked, as though before now they had been starved for the sight of the other. The only movement was his hand, which still idly massaged the bruised spot. Almost imperceptibly his head moved closer. Her lips parted. His did the same. Her heart thudded in her chest—or was she feeling the pounding of his as she was pressed tighter against him?

Her hand crept up the collar of his shirt and slipped inside. "Ian?"

"Shay."

His face ducked lower. Even closer, closer. Her eyes focused on his mouth. She could almost taste its moist softness melding with hers.

She felt his body tense and go rigid at the same moment that he inhaled sharply. Reflexively the fingers on her bottom squeezed, then released her. His hand was yanked away as though it had been tugged upon by a malicious puppeteer. His head jerked upward, and she was dumped from his lap onto the grass as he jumped to his feet.

He stalked away from her to a nearby tree, where he leaned his forehead on the rough trunk. His whole body was trembling as his shoulders heaved with gasping breaths. Restless fists thumped against his thighs. His whole aspect was that of a man trying desperately to get a grip on control that was rapidly disintegrating.

Offended and hurt beyond measure, Shay stood up. She barely kept herself from falling when the injured hip almost failed to support her. The pain had diminished only to the level of a dull throb. Damn him!

"What's the matter, Reverend Douglas?" she taunted acerbically. "Did the scarlet woman almost tempt you to fall from grace? Heaven forbid that you kiss such a vile person as me."

He spun around, his physical agitation fueling his temper. His blue eyes were stormy. She could see it was an effort for him to speak in calm, level tones. "You'd better sit down and rest until our parents get back. You've just come out of a faint."

"And whose fault is that? You of all people should have heard about the meek inheriting the earth. You're nothing but a big bully. I'll have a horrible bruise for a month."

"No one would see it if you didn't—" He seemed about to say something, possibly something ribald, but he amended it. "If you didn't do what you do."

"How perceptive of you to realize that thanks to you I might not be able to work for several weeks."

"You have your job at the gallery."

"Which accounts for about half my income. I work strictly on commission and depend on my modeling jobs to carry me through the lean months."

"You could model
clothes,"
he shouted. "But then that would be conventional, wouldn't it?"

"I don't look nearly as good in clothes as I do without them."

That thought seemed to make him nervous. His eyes scaled down her body, then looked quickly away. He wiped his palms on his white shorts. "You'd better sit down," he repeated in an unsteady voice. "You've had a shock."

"So have you, reverend. You've just discovered you're as human as the rest of us."

"I never professed to be otherwise."

"Oh, no, Saint Ian?"

"No," he said bitingly. "Why are you getting so riled, Shay? Because I didn't kiss you? Believe me, despite my work, I'm a man in every sense of the word. I'm a strong proponent of kissing. It's just that flamboyant, sexually liberated women don't appeal to me."

Rage washed over her, staining her whole body with a hot flush. "I didn't lure you down on the grass, you know. I woke up to find you fondling my fanny."

"I—" He faltered and swallowed hard. "I didn't realize what I was doing. You were hurt, and I was only … trying to determine how badly."

"Ha!" She laughed, tossing her head back. "You're a hypocrite, too. You were loving it."

Before he could make a rejoinder, they heard the crunch of tires on the gravel road and looked up to see John pull his car to a stop.

"All finished? Who won?" he called out the window.

"I did," Ian said unchivalrously as they made the short walk to the car.

"Shay, are you limping?" Celia asked as Shay opened the car door and climbed into the backseat. Ian didn't extend the courtesy of helping her.

She winced as she sat down. "Yes, I'm limping. Ian hit me with a tennis ball."

John, who was steering the car back onto the highway, slammed on the brakes, and both of the middle-aged people whipped their heads around to the backseat.

"Ian, you hit her with a tennis ball?" John demanded of his son.

"Accidentally," Ian said defensively. "She turned her back while I was serving. It was a dumb thing to do."

"Ian!" John barked.

"I was trying to save my life!" Shay shouted.

John looked from his son to Shay, and his gaze softened. "Are you all right? Where did the ball hit you?"

"Right in the butt."

Ian's words echoed in the close confines of the car, bouncing and rolling around the interior like balls on a roulette wheel before finally coming to rest. John stared at his son in mute surprise. Celia blinked rapidly in disbelief. Shay's head came around quickly to look at Ian with dismay. She didn't know which had surprised her the most, his forthright confession or his choice of words.

He turned to face her, and their eyes collided. To the further puzzlement of their parents, they both burst out laughing.

Their laughter may have dispelled the immediate animosity between them, but it did little to lessen the overriding tension. Ian treated her with deference. His excessive politeness irritated her as much as, if not more than, his previous condescension.

For the rest of the day he rarely allowed them to be in the same room together. When they were, if Shay caught him looking at her, he glanced away immediately. Considering the wide berth he gave her, she might well have been the Devil incarnate sent to compromise the soul of Ian Douglas. She felt like a character out of a Hawthorne novel.

After lunch Ian retired to his room to prepare for Sunday's sermon. "I have to leave early in the morning to get there in time for the church service," he explained.

Shay was surprised by how quickly the time had gone by. She had dreaded the weekend; now it was almost over. Of course she wasn't due to leave until Sunday evening, but spending the day in the cabin without Ian suddenly seemed a dismal prospect. It alarmed her that his departure would matter so much to her.

The afternoon afforded her the choice of either sitting alone in the house while Ian was sequestered in his room or accompanying her mother and John, who was going to try his luck fishing in a stream that cut through a corner of his property. Shay opted for the fishing trip.

The countryside was lush with the green of early summer. But with every step of the way to the stream, the twinge of pain in her hip reminded Shay of the tennis game that morning. As the afternoon ticked by, her anger increased.

For some reason she couldn't name she was incensed that Ian was determined to ignore her. From the moment she had seen him naked, water streaming down his body, he had been the foremost thought in her mind. She didn't want it to be that way, but it was. There was no use pretending otherwise. She was attracted to him as a man. Period. End of discussion.

That in itself might not be so noteworthy. But he was the first man she'd been sexually attracted to since the breakup of her marriage. She'd gone on a few dates, usually arranged by friends who seemed bent on matching her with someone as soon as possible. Because of Shay's disinterest, these potential suitors had soon given up the chase and gone on to more promising pursuits.

"All right, Shay," she said to herself as she sat contemplating the rushing stream, "he's got a great body, and he's as handsome as a warrior angel. But he's diametrically opposite you as far as temperament and philosophy go."

Even the fact that Celia, with John's gentle encouragement, had successfully baited a fish hook couldn't distract Shay from her musings.

Forgetting Ian's physical appearance for a moment—if that were possible—she concentrated on the man he was. Why, when he represented the kind of person she had previously scorned, was she so attracted to him? Why had she thought she might very well die if he didn't kiss her that morning? Why did she still yearn to feel his lips against hers, to have his hands caressing her, not accidentally but with the full intent and purpose of loving her?