A Gift from the Past (7 page)

Sammy's death had created in her an all-encompassing strength that he'd both admired and resented. Sammy's death had tapped into a vein of weakness in him that he'd found both overwhelming and humiliating. But that had been a long time ago and the wounds left by Sammy's death healed a little bit more each day.

He smiled as she stepped back out on the porch, the box they'd dug up in her hands. “Sarge still sleeping?” he asked.

She nodded and once again sat next to him on the swing. “Like a rock.” For a moment she remained with the box on her lap, as if she were afraid to open it and look at the picture once again.

Again he felt her body heat wafting over him, her scent wrapping around him and a surge of desire for her swept through him. It wasn't just a desire to kiss her lips, caress her body and make sweet, passionate love to her. It was the desire to return to the life they'd once had. A life filled with laughter and dreams, with passion and tenderness.

He didn't just want Claire's body, her passion, he wanted to share each and every piece of her life.

He just didn't know if it was too late for him…for them.

He watched as she opened the box and withdrew the photo. She stared at it, gasped and it fluttered from her fingers to the porch.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

“It's changed.”

Her face was as pale as he'd ever seen it. “What's changed?” he asked in alarm.

“The picture. It's different.” She wrapped her arms around herself, her eyes huge as she stared at him.

He bent down and picked up the photo from the porch and looked at it, then frowned and looked at her once again. “What do you mean, it's changed?” He looked at the picture again and shrugged. “It looks the same to me.”

She leaned toward him and gazed at the picture. “It's different,” she repeated, her voice trembling slightly. “Look here,” she said pointing. “Before, his hand was on the back of the chair, now it's on her shoulder. And before he was staring straight ahead at the camera. Now look! He's looking at her.”

Joshua frowned, trying to remember what he'd seen in the photograph before, but all he remembered was that it had been of two people who
looked like him and Claire. He wasn't sure about the exact positions they had been in or where exactly they had been looking.

Certainly, in the picture, Daniel was looking at Sarah and the expression on his face reflected what Joshua felt in his heart for Claire— Love and sweet longing.

“Joshua, I swear to you, that picture is different than it was when we first dug it up.” Her eyes bored into his intently. “I studied it and they are different than they were.”

Joshua stared down at the picture once again and felt the familiar strange warm current seeping up his arm. He wasn't imagining it. It was as real as his heartbeat, which quickened in response.

“I don't know what to tell you, Cookie,” he said softly. “I feel an energy flowing from it.”

“So, you believe me. It has changed since last time I looked at it.” Her gray eyes held a silent appeal, and he knew it was important to her that he believe her.

“I do believe you.” And he did.

“But how is all of this possible?”

He placed the photo back in the box and closed it, then leaned down and set it on the porch next to the swing. “I don't know, Cookie. But I'll tell you this, every day I work on games where magic is involved, in worlds where anything is possible.”

He took her hands in his. “Maybe this picture is somehow magical. I mean, how else to explain
the fact that a couple who lived over a hundred years ago looks exactly like us. How else to explain the energy we both feel when we touch it.” He tightened his grip on her hands, using his thumbs to caress the backs of them.

“We used to have magic, Claire. The two of us used to be magic together.”

She winced, as if his touch hurt her, and pulled her hands away from his. Her eyes were dark, deep. “Maybe we did once have magic, Joshua.” Her voice was strong and sure. “But the magic I might have had once in my life disappeared on the day that Sammy died, and any magic that might have lingered was destroyed on the day you walked out on me.”

She stepped backward, away from the swing, but still facing him. “I don't believe in magic anymore, Joshua. No changing picture, or magic potion or unicorn will make me believe in magic again. And now I need to go inside and check on Sarge. Are you coming?”

“I'll be there in a few minutes,” he said. As she disappeared into the house, he set the swing swaying once again, his thoughts scattered.

He had no explanation for the picture and what Claire believed was behind its transformation. Nor could he begin to explain why Sarah and Daniel Walker looked like him and Claire.

But he suddenly knew why he had been brought back here. It had been his belief in magic that had
gotten him through the hell of his childhood with his drunken, abusive uncle. And if he was responsible for stealing away Claire's belief in magic, then it was his duty to do everything in his power to return that belief to her.

The only problem was, he couldn't know if he would be returning it to her so that they could find happiness together again, or if he was returning it to her so she could find happiness with some other man.

“S
till haven't found what you're looking for?”

Claire looked up from the box she'd been digging in and saw Marie Kincaid, the city clerk, standing in the basement doorway. “I'm not exactly sure what I'm looking for, but I know I haven't found it yet,” she replied as she rose and dusted off her bottom. “Everything is such a mess down here.”

Marie nodded. “It's a shame, isn't it? All this history just sitting down here in boxes getting all mildewed and faded. Every once in a while Clark mentions that he wouldn't mind hiring somebody to get these things scanned and logged into a computer.”

“Really?” Claire looked at her with interest. “You think he's serious about hiring somebody?”

“I think he's serious whenever he thinks about it,” Marie replied. “Of course, I'm sure it wouldn't be a full-time position, but if it's something you might be interested in, you should go upstairs and talk to him. He's in his office right now.”

“Thanks. I'll just put this stuff away and head upstairs to chat with him.” As Marie went back upstairs, Claire carefully returned the items she'd been going through.

The idea of working part-time here amid these treasures from the past pleased her. Perhaps she could arrange it so she could work during the hours while Sarge was at physical therapy. She could certainly put the little bit of extra money to good use.

When she'd left the house an hour earlier, Joshua had been loading Sarge into the car to take him to his first physical therapy session. She hoped it wouldn't take long for Sarge to get his strength back and get out of the wheelchair.

She stifled a yawn with the back of her hand. She hadn't slept much for the past two nights. Not only had she been deeply disturbed by the photograph of Sarah and Daniel, but she'd also had been haunted by dreams of Joshua.

Her dreams had been erotic, memories and fantasies of the two of them making love. She'd awakened each morning with a hunger for his kiss, a
yearning for his touch, and that was definitely disturbing.

She'd meant it when she'd told him she no longer believed in magic or happy endings. She couldn't forget the devastation he'd left behind when he'd walked out on her. As far as she was concerned, there was no going back, no magic to be reclaimed.

Thirty minutes later she was on her way home and in possession of a new part-time job. She and Clark had agreed that she would work twenty hours a week for a respectable hourly wage. As long as the hours meshed with Sarge's physical therapy, she was more than willing to take the job on.

It was just after ten-thirty when she walked into the house. Joshua greeted her in the living room, a secretive smile curving his lips. “Come on into the kitchen,” he said. “I've got a surprise for you.”

“A surprise? Did you figure out where the treasure is buried?” she asked eagerly.

“No, it isn't anything like that.” His eyes twinkled merrily. “But I think you'll be pleased.”

Curious, she followed him into the kitchen where she was astonished to see a beauty-salon chair against the sink counter. “Welcome to Joshua's hair care,” he said, looking immensely pleased with himself. “I believe you're my next appointment.”

He gestured her to sit, but she hesitated. “Where did you get the chair?” she asked.

“Betty's shop. She was more than happy to rent it to me for a couple of hours.”

“Why did you rent it?”

He took her by the shoulders and led her to the chair, then gently nudged her to sit. “Because I know how much you used to love to have somebody else wash your hair and because I also knew that you'd never allow me to pay for an appointment at the beauty shop for you.”

“So, you paid to rent a chair? What makes you think I'm going to let you wash my hair?” she asked with as much indignation as she could muster.

He smiled again. “Because I see how much you'd like it shining from your eyes, and why on earth would you deny me the pleasure of washing your hair and you the pleasure of having it washed after I've gone to all this trouble?”

He knew her too well, she thought as she relented and leaned her head back. Of all the things she'd given up when Sarge had become so ill and money had become so tight, her trips to the beauty shop had been the most missed. There was nothing nicer than having somebody else wash, dry and comb your hair.

She closed her eyes as Joshua turned on the water in the sink and tried to ignore the intimate
closeness. His broad chest was at eye level as he leaned over her to adjust the water temperature.

His scent, that sexy mix of clean male and expensive cologne, filled her senses as his hands gently swept her hair out from under her shoulders and into the sink.

He began to spray her hair with water that was the perfect temperature and she squeezed her eyes more tightly closed, trying to ignore how his nearness, his scent and his body heat all combined to evoke in her a stir of deep, rich desire.

As his fingers began to stroke through her hair, she found herself remembering the sweet dreams that she'd had the last two nights, dreams of Joshua's naked skin next to hers, dreams of his lips plying hers with fiery need.

“I got a job,” she said in an effort to change the direction of her thoughts. She opened her eyes and looked at him. Even upside-down he looked like a hunk.

“You did? Doing what?” He squeezed the strawberry-scented shampoo she liked onto his palms, then slathered it onto her hair.

“Clark Windsloe hired me for twenty hours a week working to sort out the boxes in the basement of City Hall. I figured I could put in the hours while Sarge is at his physical therapy sessions. Clark seemed thrilled that somebody wanted to do it, and I know I'll enjoy doing it. Maybe I'll learn more about Sarah and Daniel.”

“Sounds perfect.” He soaped her hair from her scalp to the ends. “Like silk,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. As he used his fingertips to scrub at her scalp, she closed her eyes once again and gave in to the utter bliss of relaxation that stole over her.

He had magic fingers, and she uttered a deep sigh as they seemed to find every spot on her head that might hold stress and smooth it away. She felt as if she'd been tense forever and she welcomed the release of that tension.

As long as she kept her eyes closed and wasn't looking at him, she could almost pretend she was at the beauty shop and it wasn't Joshua's sexy male body so close to hers, but rather Betty who was standing so close and washing her hair.

By the time he rinsed the suds away, she felt boneless, more relaxed than she had felt in months. He helped her to a sitting position and quickly wrapped a towel around her wet hair.

“Come on, I'll blow it dry for you,” he said.

“That's not necessary,” she protested half-heartedly.

“Ah, but it is. Mr. Joshua never quits until the job is done.” He took her by the hand and led her out of the kitchen and down the hallway to her bedroom.

He pointed her to the bed, then went into the adjoining bathroom to get her blow dryer. As she sank down on the rose-colored bedspread, she re
alized this was the first time he'd been in this room since he'd returned to Mayfield.

The room had looked different when they had been together years ago. At that time the color scheme had been blue, Joshua's favorite color. Items from his pockets had been scattered across the top of the dresser, and more often than not a pair of his pants were slung across the back of the chair in the corner.

The week after he'd left, she'd packed up everything that had belonged to him. She'd bought new curtains and a bedspread, then transformed the room from
theirs
to
hers.
It was the only way she was able to sleep in the room alone.

She watched as he returned from the bathroom wielding the blow-dryer and a hairbrush. He plugged the dryer into a nearby socket, then unwound the towel from her head.

He got behind her on the bed and began to brush out the tangles in her hair. He was gentle, apparently remembering that she was tender-headed, and as he worked he was so close behind her she could feel his warm breath on the nape of her neck.

“Am I hurting you?” he asked softly, the hairbrush paused in the air.

Yes. You're hurting me with your nearness. You're making me ache inside. These thoughts whirled around inside her. “No, you aren't hurting me,” she said aloud.

Once again she closed her eyes as he turned on
the blow-dryer and pointed the warm stream of air at her head. With the brush working through the strands of wet hair and the blow-dryer warming her shoulders, she once again felt a delicious languor sweep over her.

However, the languor didn't last long. As he dried her hair, he abandoned the brush and instead used his hands to rake through her hair. Time and time again, she felt the tips of his fingers on her neck, around her ears, touching her cheek. And each touch filled her with tension and heat.

He continued to stroke her hair long after she knew it was dry. She knew she should call a halt, tell him to shut off the blow-dryer and get them both off the bed and out of the bedroom, but she didn't.

When he finally shut off the blow-dryer, the silence in the room was startling.
Get up,
her brain commanded. But before she could follow through on her brain's command, he moved her hair aside and his lips pressed hotly against her neck.

“Joshua.” She meant it as a protest, but instead, to her horror, it sounded like a breathless plea.

His hands caressed her shoulders as his mouth continued to roam along her neckline. “What?” he murmured, not stopping his sweet, heated kisses.

“I think the beauty session is over.” Her voice trembled and her pulse raced.

“You're right. It is.” Abruptly he got off the
bed and moved to stand before her. He held out a hand to help her up, his eyes lit with an internal flame that stirred the embers that smoldered inside her.

She took his hand, her heart thudding wildly and he pulled her up off the bed and against his body in an embrace. She raised her face, thought to protest, but instantly his lips claimed hers in a deep, soul-wrenching kiss.

Time not only stood still, but seemed to regress, and she felt as though she were fifteen years old again, experiencing her very first kiss with Joshua.

As it had that first time, his kiss overwhelmed her, swept all thoughts out of her mind and filled her with a hunger she couldn't fight.

Despite their painful past, in spite of the lingering bitterness she felt about him walking out on her so many years ago, it took only minutes of his lips against hers, his arms around her, for her to get lost in him.

 

Joshua hadn't intended to make love to Claire when he'd made plans to wash her hair. His sole intention had been to do something nice for her, to provide her some enjoyment.

But with her warm, lithe body in his arms and her mouth opened eagerly beneath his, he had every intention of making love to her. Stroking the silk of her hair had stirred him to distraction, evoking memories of making love to her in the past.

When they had been married and living together, the physical side of their relationship had been intense and beautiful. She'd been his first and only lover, and he'd been her first and only.

They had grown from young, novice teenagers fumbling in the new arena of desire, to lovers experienced in the art of giving and receiving pleasure from one another.

As the memories burned hot in his mind, he pulled her closer against him, his tongue swirling with hers. The desire that had been simmering from the moment he'd arrived back in town now raged nearly out of control inside him.

He slid his hands down her slender back and she seemed to meld against him, into him. Cupping her buttocks, he broke the kiss only long enough to trail kisses down her throat. She raised her face, allowing him better access to the hollow of her throat and although he'd thought it impossible, his desire for her increased.

It had been so achingly long since he'd been with her. It had been so long since he'd tasted the sweetness of her lips, stroked the silk of her skin, lost himself in her heat.

He stopped kissing her only long enough to sit on the edge of the bed and pull her down next to him, then he reclaimed her lips as they both fell backward on the soft, welcoming mattress.

He immediately rolled halfway on top of her,
relishing the feel of her bare legs against his, desperately wanting more.

Her nipples were visible despite the fact that she wore a bra and a tank top, and the sight of the pebbly hardness aroused him even more. He covered one of her breasts with his hand and rubbed his thumb against the turgid nipple. A deep, throaty moan issued from her.

Slow, he told himself. He wanted to take it slow although his body demanded immediate relief. He didn't want to hurry. He wanted to savor each caress, every kiss. He wanted to let her know through his touch that he wanted to be back in her life forever.

Slow, he thought again, but even as he told himself to slow down, his fingers pushed her tank top up above her lacy bra. Taking it slow was one thing, thoroughly torturing himself was quite another.

It had been over five long years since he'd last held her in his arms, five long years since he'd felt the splendor of her naked body against his. Take it slow be damned.

He sat up and quickly pulled his T-shirt over his head and threw it on the floor nearby. He then pulled her up and also took off her tank top, tossing it near his own shirt on the floor.

Her smoke-colored eyes were glazed as he wrapped his arms around her and once again lowered his mouth to hers. As he kissed her deeply,
soulfully, his fingers unclasped the fastening of her bra and the garment slid away from her, leaving her half-naked in his arms.

Although words of love filled his head, begged to be released by his mouth, he kept his silence. She'd told him early in their marriage that she didn't like love talk, that she liked her lovemaking to take place in silence.