That McCloud Woman (8 page)

The
problem was that she was only half a woman.

No,
she argued silently, giving her head a shake. She wasn't half a woman. She had
all the necessary parts. Even the emotions and desires to go with them. But
there was a short circuit somewhere. Some fluke of nature that resulted in a
malfunction. To put it simply, her parts, when put into motion simultaneously,
just didn't work.

And
it was better to admit the failing, than to pretend otherwise.

She'd
arrived at that conclusion months ago when her divorce from Alex had become
final. At the same time, she'd decided that she could lead a full and happy
life alone, without the companionship or intimacy found with a man.

But
what she hadn't realized was that while she might be able to intellectually and
physically choose to live her life without a man, she couldn't sever her desire
for one.

Jack
had certainly proved that.

The
night before, on the pier, she'd wanted to make love with him. She'd wanted to
feel his hands on her bare skin. To feel the texture of his lips moving on
hers. To taste him. Touch him. To have him fill her with…

Groaning,
she stumbled to a stop before the kitchen door, and pressed the heel of her
hand to her forehead, forcing back the memories, the sensations that had
flooded her mind, her body, at his touch. Oh, God, how was she ever going to
face him again after what she'd experienced? After she'd made such a fool of
herself?

She
jerked her hand to her side, curling her fingers into a tight fist, and willed
back the unwelcome fears.

Knowing
that she had no choice but to face him and to apologize to him, she stepped
into the kitchen. She set the skillet on the stove, turned on the burner
beneath it, then went to the refrigerator. Eggs. Milk. Butter. She gathered
ingredients, refusing to let her thoughts stray from the task at hand. She'd
make him a nice breakfast, she told herself. And while they ate, she'd explain
why she'd reacted the way she had the night before. She'd tell him why she'd
pulled away from him, when what she'd really wanted to do was to make wild,
passionate love with him. She'd tell him—

"Alayna?"

The
milk carton hit the floor first, followed quickly by the eggs and stick of
butter. Alayna stared at the mess spreading at her feet, the cracked eggshells
a vivid reminder of her own imperfections. Slowly she lifted her head. Jack
stood in the doorway, his cap squeezed between his hands. Without either of
them mentioning it, the memory of the night before stretched between them,
larger and more humiliating in the light of day. She saw it in his face, in the
tightness of his lips, in the regret that shadowed his eyes … in the reluctance
that kept him at the door and from drawing any closer to her.

Faced
with her inadequacies and the ramifications when she chose to ignore them, she
dropped her gaze. "You startled me," she murmured, then sank to her
knees, and began to scrape at the milk and eggs with her bare hands.
"Sorry about the mess. I'll cook your breakfast as soon as I get it
cleaned up."

Tears
blinded her and she swiped her wrist beneath her eyes to clear them away, then
frantically started scraping again at the spilled milk and broken eggs.

A
hand closed around her wrist.

"I'm
the one who should be apologizing, Alayna. Not you."

She
dipped her chin to her chest and closed her eyes, willing him to disappear, to
spare her any more humiliation, any further embarrassment. But when she opened
her eyes, his knee was still inches from her own, his fingers still wrapped
tightly around her wrist. "It's not your fault," she said and
sniffed. "I'm just clumsy, is all."

"Not
about the milk," he said, his voice sharp with frustration. "I'm
sorry about last night. I—"

Alayna
sucked in a breath, knowing if she didn't say it now and quickly, she never
would. She eased free of his grasp, drawing away from him, both physically and
emotionally. "It's not your fault," she said and had to fight to keep
the quiver from her voice. "I shouldn't have let things go so far."
She pushed to her feet and crossed to the sink and tore a length of paper towel
from the dispenser. Grabbing a bowl, she returned and dropped down beside him
again. She blotted up the pools of milk and, at the same time, managed to keep
her face hidden from him.

"Why?"

At
the one-word question, her fingers stilled, then she started frantically
mopping up the milk again, her movements as jerky as the nerves that jumped
beneath her skin. "Because I'm not any good at sex. I know that,
but—" She fisted the paper into a wad within her hand, then set her jaw
and started scrubbing furiously at the floor. "I just got carried away for
a minute. That's all. It won't happen again."

Dumbfounded,
Jack stared at the back of her head. She'd lost him right after the part where
she'd said she wasn't any good at sex. "You're not any good at sex."

He
said it as a statement, not a question, but Alayna felt obligated to respond.
"No, I'm not."

"And
what makes you think that?"

She
stopped her mopping and shot him a frown over her shoulder. "Past
experience." She snapped her head back around and continued cleaning.

His
mind churning with a thousand questions, Jack watched her, but soon found his
thoughts drifting to her backside and how with her kneeling and stretched out
so far, wiping up the mess she'd made, her bottom stuck way up in the air. Heart-shaped,
each cheek about the size of the spread of his hand, her bottom swayed from
side to side in rhythm with the movements of her hand.

Jack
slowly shook his head, remembering the way she'd responded to him the night
before, and wondered where she'd gotten such a crazy notion. Not any good at
sex? Somebody had done a number on this woman, he decided. There was no other
explanation. He'd be willing to bet his truck that she was not only
good
in bed, but she was
great.
A woman with as much heart and compassion as Alayna would
have to be. "Well, you sure as hell had me fooled."

She
sniffed indignantly. "I'm not a tease, if that's what you're
thinking."

"I
wasn't thinking that at all." He shifted his weight from the balls of his
feet to plant one foot solidly on the floor. He braced a forearm along his
thigh. "In fact, I was thinking just the opposite."

Opposite?
Alayna slowly
straightened, sinking back on her heels. She turned to look at him, her
curiosity getting the better of her. "And what would the opposite
be?"

His
eyes lit with a devilish grin. "That you are one hot babe."

Alayna's
mouth dropped open. "One hot babe," she repeated, her eyes wide with
disbelief.

He
slapped a palm against his thigh and pushed himself to his feet. "Yep. One
hot babe."

Alayna
stared up at him for a full three seconds, her heart racing, her hopes soaring.
One hot babe? Could it be true? All those years she'd thought— No, she told
herself. Jack was wrong. She knew her sexual abilities better than he did. He'd
had—what? All of five minutes on which to base his assessment? She'd had years.
Frustrating and heartbreaking years to discover her inadequacies, to have them
thrown in her face.

She
snorted.
One hot babe.
"Yeah, right," she muttered. She slapped
the wad of soggy paper towels into the bowl and stood, chuckling at the
ridiculousness of his suggestion as she crossed to the sink. "What would
you like for breakfast?"

Though
Jack was tempted to push the subject of her sexual prowess, he decided it might
be best—for both their sakes—to just let it drop. He didn't want to get
involved with her, and she certainly didn't need the complication of getting
involved with a man like him. "Those scrambled eggs you were whipping up
on the floor looked pretty good to me."

Alayna
spun. "Oh, but I can't serve you food that's been—" Then she saw the
glint in his eyes, and realized he was teasing her. The tension slowly eased
from her shoulders, and she laughed, relieved to know there would be no
lingering awkwardness from the previous night's fiasco … and equally delighted
to discover that he had a sense of humor buried beneath that gruff exterior.

"Scrambled
eggs, it is," she agreed with a decisive nod. She shot him a wink,
smiling. "Though I think I'll start with fresh ingredients."

Dust
motes danced in the shaft of sunlight coming through the attic window, stirred
by Alayna's steps. She stopped beside an old harvest table and pulled back a
corner of the drop cloth that covered it, smoothing a hand over the stained
wood she'd exposed. She smiled wistfully, remembering meals shared with her
family gathered around the table. She didn't know the table's age, but
suspected it was well over sixty years old. Maybe even older. She vaguely
remembered her father mentioning that the table had once belonged to his
grandmother.

She
didn't know when the table had been relegated to the attic, but suspected that
her mother had ordered it stored there when she had redecorated the house over
twenty years ago. Alayna bit back a smile, thinking of her mother. Ophelia
McCloud had hated the Double-Cross Heart Ranch and the family's required summer
visits there. The house was old, she'd complained to her husband, with few
amenities, and certainly lacking in refinement. And there was nothing to do in
the country, she liked to remind him, but watch the grass grow. To appease her,
Alayna's father had allowed his wife to completely redecorate the Pond House.
The project had kept her busy for two years—and stopped her complaining for
almost that long.

Alayna
chuckled. In spite of her parents' differences, they loved each other, sharing
that love with their children. And Alayna wanted to continue that legacy by
sharing her love with children who had never known love as she had.

She
stepped back, studying the long table, already imagining her own brood of
children gathered around it. There would be laughter and teasing, and plenty of
love to pass around.

"Alayna!"

"Up
here," she called. She quickly wiped her palm down her thigh, cleaning off
the dust she'd gathered, feeling as if she'd been caught skipping school. When
she'd slipped off to the attic, she'd left Jack alone to work on a loose
spindle on the staircase banister. That he would seek her out was yet another
indication that what had transpired between the two of them on the pier the
night before had left no adverse effects, and for that she was thankful.

At
the sound of his steps on the stairs, she turned, smiling.

He
stopped with one foot planted on the top step and braced his hands on either
side of the door frame. He leaned forward, peering inside the room. "What
are you doing up here?" he asked, frowning.

The
bulge of biceps was impossible for Alayna to ignore. That and the way his jeans
hugged his thigh. And the endearing manner in which his hair fell across his
forehead was, to her, simply irresistible. She told herself it was merely a
motherly instinct that made her want to cross to him, comb the dark hair aside
and place a kiss on his forehead to erase the frown lines there.

Thankfully
she was honest enough to recognize the excuse for what it was—a lie. She may
not be able to have sex with a man, she reminded herself, but she certainly
still found them attractive. Especially, it seemed, this particular man.

"Looking
for treasure," she replied. She laughed at Jack's startled expression.
"Furniture," she clarified. "Things I might be able to use
downstairs."

"Oh."
He pushed from the doorway and stepped inside the low-ceilinged room. He lifted
the corner of a dust cloth and raised a brow. "Nice stuff. Old, but
nice." He dropped the cloth. "Do you want me to haul anything down
for you?"

Alayna
turned to the table, studying it closely, while Jack crossed to stand beside
her. "I'd like to take this down, if you think we could manage it."

He
fitted his hands around the table's edge and lifted, testing its weight.
"I don't know," he said doubtfully. "It's pretty heavy. Might
need help with this one." He squatted down, peering beneath it. "We
might be able to take the legs off. Would make moving it easier." He stood
and tossed back the rest of the cover for a better look.

Alayna
gasped, covering her mouth with her hands. "Oh, no," she murmured,
reaching to press her fingertips against the buckled wood he'd exposed.

Jack
glanced up at the rafters overhead. "Roof must've leaked," he said.
"I'll give it a look later." He lowered his gaze to the damaged wood
again, shaking his head with regret. "A shame, too."

"Do
you think it can be repaired?"

Jack
heard the hopefulness in Alayna's voice, and suspected she'd had her heart set
on using the table. He stepped closer, rubbing a hand along the damaged wood,
praying it wasn't as bad as he'd first thought. "I'm no professional
regarding furniture," he said hesitantly, "but I'd think it'd be
cheaper to replace it, than to try to repair it. But if you want, I can haul it
into town and get an expert's opinion."