Turner's Rainbow 2 - The Rainbow Promise (3 page)

He pulled her across him so that she sat in his lap. Her bottom pressed against his already turgid manhood, further heightening the fierce pleasure building in his loins. With one arm Luke supported her back while he kissed her, and his other hand went to the opening of her dress, spreading the sides apart and sliding beneath the dress to the cool, sheer cloth of her chemise. He cupped her breast through her underclothes. It was heavy, fuller now that she was pregnant. He could see the dark circle of her aureole and the thick, pointed nipple. He thought of their son suckling her breast, his little fingers kneading the soft white flesh, and he wanted her with a desire that went far deeper than just sex.

"Sarah." Luke's voice was rough with yearning. He pulled down the chemise to expose her breast. He had seen her naked time after time, yet the sight of her never failed to excite him. He wanted to take her in every way a man could have a woman, wanted to fill her completely. His control hung by threads.

Luke leaned back his head and closed his eyes, sucking in air. His arm was clenched tight as iron behind her back. Sarah opened her eyes, puzzled. She looked at his taut face and neck, harsh and beautiful in the pale moonlight. She reached up and caressed his cheek lightly. Luke opened his eyes and gazed down at her. Sarah saw his hunger and she saw his control, and she knew with disappointment that Luke would not make love to her tonight.

But then he bent and took her nipple into his mouth, and Sarah wondered if she was wrong. His tongue moved gently over the hard button of flesh, circling and caressing. No one would have guessed the leashed hunger within him, so soft was his mouth on her breast. But he caressed her now for her, not himself, and he took great care not to hurt her tender breasts, sensitized by her pregnancy.

Luke pulled down the cloth from her other breast, and his mouth made its lazy way to it. Sarah felt the slight scratch of his chin and cheek, unshaven since early this morning, a counterpoint to the softness of his mouth. The air was cool against her nipple, damp from his tongue, and it pebbled even more. Her loins were heavy and liquid with desire. She ached to feel his hardness inside her, and she moved her hips a little, beckoning him.

The shifting of her body rubbed his engorged shaft, and instinctively Luke shoved her hips down, moving her against him, aching to reach fulfillment and loving the ache. His teeth sank into his lower lip as he struggled for, and found, control. His hand went under her skirt, pushing it up, sliding along her legs to their juncture. Sarah made a choked sound and arched her back, pressing up against his hand. He slid between her legs, caressing the hardness of bone beneath the cloth, touching the dampness of her desire.

His hand moved up and untied the drawstring of her undergarment. He caressed the mound of her abdomen, sliding downward to the prickle of hair. Sarah drew in her breath sharply. His fingers moved into the hot, moist crevice of her femininity, exploring the slick folds of flesh. He stared down at Sarah's face, watching the play of emotions across her face, the restlessness and longing, the pleasure, the almost unbearable buildup of passion within her He loved seeing what he did to her, loved watching the pleasure take her.

His finger slid over the tiny button of pleasure between her nether lips, stroking and pressing. Sarah moved beneath his touch, circling her hips, squeezing her thighs together as though to entrap the pleasure. The waves of pleasure were growing in her, building, climbing until they were so intense she thought she must die from not reaching the end. Then his finger moved quickly, and the gathered force exploded within her.

She groaned, digging her heels into the wooden slats of the swing and arching back, shaking all over with the intensity of her satisfaction. Pleasure coursed out through her body, flooding her with heat and sharp, prickling tingles of enjoyment. She stayed taut for a moment, pulsing with the afterwaves of passion, then slowly, panting, she relaxed. Her breath came out in a broken sigh.

Sarah opened her eyes and smiled up at her husband. Her face was flushed and loose with contentment, her eyes glowing. "Oh, Luke." She brushed her hand across his face and down the column of his neck. His skin was searing. "Thank you."

"My pleasure."

She started to get up, but he held her tightly against him. She glanced at him, puzzled. "Don't you want to go up to bed so we can—"

"No." He shook his head. His voice was hoarse. "No. You remember what Doc Banks said."

"But— "

He laid his cheek against her hair, enveloping her with his unspent heat. "That was for you, sweetheart. Just for you."

"Oh. Luke!" Sarah flung her arms around him, burying her face in his chest, love flooding her at his generosity. "You're so good, so kind."

He chuckled. "Hardly, I just love you."

She clung to him, and he rocked gently, holding her It seemed to him that he held the world in his arms.

❧

James Banks walked his last patient to the door and opened it politely for the gray-haired woman. She smiled at him. "Thank you, Dr. Jim."

He forced himself to smile back despite the fact that it was seven o'clock, he was tired and hungry, and this was the fourth time in two months that Mrs. Singleton had come in for an imaginary illness. Her husband had died six months ago, and her only son lived in Greenville. She came because she was lonely more than anything else. "It's no trouble, Mrs. Singleton."

She patted his arm. "You always were a good boy. Your mother must be very proud of you."

"I hope so." James watched Mrs, Singleton navigate the four shallow steps to the walk, then closed the door and pulled down the shade over the glass upper half of the door. He leaned back against it and closed his eyes, sighing. He was a handsome man, with thick black hair, warm, chocolate brown eyes, and even features; but tonight weariness blurred his looks, and he appeared older than his thirty-one years.

It had been a long day, one that had begun at five o'clock this morning when he'd been called to the depot where a railroad worker had had his leg crashed uncoupling a car. James had managed to save the man's life, but not the leg.

James opened his eyes and pushed away from the door. He walked down the hall past the examination rooms and through the door leading into the house.

It was a large, elegant house. James had grown up here, and he knew every inch of it, just as he knew every nook and cranny of his father's office. He smiled to himself. He'd been here two years, and he still thought of it as his father's office; old habits died hard. He shrugged out of his suit jacket and hung it over the newel post of the staircase as he passed by, then continued into the kitchen, untying his string tie and unbuttoning his collar and cuffs as he went.

Lurleen sat at the kitchen table with her daughter Dovie, chatting, and she rose to her feet when she saw James.

"Well, I declare, it's about time. Dr. Jimmy."

"I'm sorry, Lurleen. You shouldn't have waited for me. Hello, Dovie."

"Hello, Dr. Jim." Dovie stood up, too, to help her mother serve the food she had kept warm in the oven. Dovie was a tall, slender woman, handsome to look at, with large dark eyes, well-modeled features, and smooth skin the color of coffee and cream. James wondered why a nice-looking woman like Dovie hadn't married by now, instead of living with her mother in the servants' quarters above the carriage house. But there was something very contained and controlled about Dovie that he guessed kept men at bay. She wore her thick, curly black hair pulled back from her face and subdued into a tight knot. Her dark skirt and white high-necked blouse were plain to the point of severity. Dovie carried herself ramrod straight, and her face was stem. She looked the epitome of a schoolmarm, which was what she was at the small schoolhouse for the town's black children.

The two women set a platter and bowls of food on the table in front of James. "Mmmm." He began to fill his plate. "Why don't you join me?"

Lurleen snorted. "We done ate already, Dr. Jim."

"Then have a cup of coffee and keep me company."

Dovie was quick to accept. She clasped her hands in her lap and leaned forward, eager to talk. "I heard you treated a man down by the tracks this morning."

"Yes." James smiled slowly. He knew Dovie; she wanted to hear every last detail. Ever since he could remember, Dovie had been at his heels, wanting to know something— pestering him to teach her to read and write and figure numbers, asking to read his books, interrogating him about his college courses. She was the most intellectually curious human being he had ever met. One day James's father had found her struggling through one of his thick medical tomes when she was about sixteen, and he had given Lurleen the money to send Dovie to the college at Tuskegee.

Dovie shot James a fulminating glance. "Now, don't you tease me, James Banks. I remember you when you were still in short pants."

"Dovie! That ain't no way to talk to the doctor!" James chuckled. "Don't get on her, Lurleen. She's right; I was teasing. Okay. One of the railroad crew got his leg crushed this morning."

"What did you do? Were you able to set it?"

He shook his head. "No. It was too severe. I had to amputate." He began to describe the operation.

Lurleen threw up her hands and rose quickly. "Lord, Dr. Jim, you drive me right outta this house." She glared at her daughter. "Girl, you crazy, sittin' there listenin' to that without turnin' a hair."

Dovie's lips quirked into a smile. "Sorry, Mama."

"I promise we'll talk about something else," James put in, and Lurleen sat back down.

Dovie hesitated, then said, "There's a boy at my school who worries me."

"What's the matter?"

"He has a long cut on his arm, says he got it from barbed wire, and it's not healing. His arm's starting to puff up and look a funny color."

"Bring him in to see me tomorrow."

"His parents don't have any money."

James shrugged. "That doesn't make his arm any better, does it?"

"No." Dovie smiled. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

James finished eating and went upstairs to his mother's sitting room. She was reading when he came into the room, but she set aside the leather-bound book with a smile. At fifty-two, Anthea Banks was still a lovely woman, and she carried herself regally. She came from one of the best families in Willow Springs; her ancestors had been among the first to settle in Farr County. Her sister was married to a judge, and her cousin was the bank president.

"James, dear." She held out both her hands to him.

"Hello, Mother." He clasped her hands and sat down on a hassock near her chair.

"Working late tonight, dear?"

"You know how it is."

Anthea gave a wry grin. "I'm afraid I do."

She squeezed his hands. Anthea wasn't an expressive woman; but she loved her son deeply, and she was very proud of him. He was all one could hope for in a son: handsome, intelligent, and kind. But he was a lonely man. His whole life was his work, and though now and then he called on an eligible girl, he hadn't been serious about anyone since he'd moved back to Willow Springs, It bothered Anthea to think of James living without the love of a wife and children. She suspected, from a look he got in his eyes sometimes, that there had been heartbreak somewhere in his past; but she was not the sort of mother to pry, so she didn't bring up the subject.

For a few minutes, they chatted about their days. Anthea told him about the Baptist Women's meeting that afternoon in Rachel Corbell's house, and James related a few amusing anecdotes from his work, carefully expurgating anything that might be ugly or harsh. When Anthea began to look tired, James kissed her on the cheek and went back downstairs.

The kitchen was dark, and Lurleen and Dovie were gone. James went into the dining room and took out a bottle of Kentucky bourbon from the sideboard. He poured himself two fingers, and, glass in hand, strolled out onto the front porch. He stood for a moment sipping his drink and gazing out at the dark, silent street. The honeysuckle bush along the side fence was in bloom, and the air was heavy with its sweet, heady scent.

James closed his eyes, a wistful sadness creeping through him. Honeysuckle had grown wild behind the Turner house, and all that sweet, short June while he and Julia lay in the shelter of the trees there, he had smelled it. He had never been able to smell honeysuckle since without thinking of Julia.

He took another swallow of bourbon. It was pointless to think about it after all this time. Eleven years. Yet he could still see her as she had looked that day in Harper's store, when he was home for Christmas. It had been years since he'd seen her, and he had had trouble placing her for a moment. She had looked so much like a woman at seventeen, so little like the child he had seen at school. She had worn a faded pink dress and a shawl, and a saucy red knitted cap had sat on her pale golden hair, hanging loose and silken around her face. Her eyes had been a clear, startling blue. Her face was delicate, her eyes huge, and she had a sweet, vulnerable air. He had thought she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

James wondered where Julia was now and what she was doing. Probably had a passel of kids and looked twice her age. He didn't know why he still thought about her sometimes after all these years. He guessed it was because she had been his first, and you didn't forget your first woman, your first real love. Your first heartbreak.

James tossed down the rest of the drink. It was a smooth fire in his throat and stomach.

He could never forget Julia—the softness of her body beneath him, the sweet taste of her mouth. He would always carry the memory of their lovemaking inside him—just as he would always carry the pain he had felt when he had learned she'd married Will Dobson.

At first he hadn't believed it. She had lain with him, and James knew he had been her first man. She had told him she loved him. He had loved her desperately, had wanted to marry her. Then, suddenly, she had married Will Dobson— without even telling him. He had had to hear it from her father.

He hadn't understood it. He had thought about it a million times, and he never had understood it. Julia had said she loved him. How could she turn around and marry another man? But she had, and all he could think it meant was that she hadn't really loved him. She must have deceived him, used him for some hidden reason of her own.

At first he had been angry and bitter. He had drank too much and spent too much time in New Orleans's Storyville. But eventually the pain had eased, and he had gone back to his studies and qualified for medical school. Over the years, his life had returned to normal. He had become a doctor. He enjoyed his work. He rarely thought of those few, brief months when he had been in love with Julia Turner.

Just sometimes. . . like tonight. . . when he smelled the strong scent of honeysuckle in the air.

James sighed and turned away. It was time to stop mooning about on the porch and go to bed. His days started early. He turned and went back into the house, shutting the door on the evening air.