Blame it on Cupid (12 page)

He dropped a few ice cubes into his drink and suddenly turned, spotting her. That sense of danger multiplied times a dozen. Maybe more. He just looked at her with a flash of something electric and alive in his eyes…yet just that quickly, he ducked his head and took a sip.

“Hell, I'd hoped you were able to sleep, Merry. Want a drink?”

“No, thanks.”

Before she could say anything else, he leaned back against the counter and filled her in on the power problem, his flannel voice rough-soft, as natural as always. She'd imagined the danger thing, she thought, must have daydreamed the flash of desire in his eyes.

“Afraid you have a real mess in your backyard. But the electric company moved the branch, fixed the live wire. You've got power again. You'll need to call the insurance company tomorrow, see what Charlie's policy covers, but I'm guessing you've got no sweat. It's just a matter of bringing in a roofer to check for damage, and hiring some tree clean-up people.”

“Thanks so much.” She hesitated. “I should probably go over there. If the power's on, I should start cleaning up all that paint—”

“At two in the morning? It may be a mess, but it's bound to be easier to take on in the daylight, and after you've had some rest.”

That was true. But it didn't seem to dent her guilt feeling. “Look, Jack. I just don't know how to thank you. You've been more than a brick.”

“It's nothing, Merry. We're neighbors. No big deal.”

Maybe it wasn't, but that odd edgy, itchy tone of his was back. She hated being such a pain in the butt. She edged closer another step, until her shadow joined his on the far kitchen wall. “I just can't tell you how sorry I am to be such a bother. I promise not to make a habit of this. I feel really badly about messing up your Saturday night—”

“It's nothing, Merry. Forget it.” He slugged down a good gulp of scotch.

“It's not nothing.” Again she took a step forward and a big breath at the same time. “Jack, I can see you're irritated with me. It's in your voice. And I totally don't blame you. I realize I've been a complete imposition. But—”

“It's not about that.”

She stopped. He'd the same as admitted he
was
irritated. “It's about what then?”

He plunked the glass down on the counter. “Nothing.”

She cocked her head, confused. “I realize you've kind of been looking after me. I never meant to put you in that position. And I'd like to be a better neighbor, a decent friend—”

That last word alone seemed to set off another scowl. “Merry, this is just going to work way, way better if I stay irritated with you. Get it?”

“Um…no.”

He rolled his eyes. “Maybe you think of
me
as a friend. As a neighbor. As a guy too old to have a hot date on a Saturday night.”

She moved from confused to downright flabbergasted. She tried to think of anything she'd said that could have been construed as an insult, because that was how he sounded. Insulted. “I never thought any such thing,” she started to say.

“So it'd just be better if I stayed on the miffed side.”

And they said women were unfathomable. She peered into his eyes, trying to somehow translate this testosterone-speak. “I don't want you miffed at me,” she assured him.

“Yeah, you do.”

“No, I really, really don't.”

“Damn it, Merry.” He reached out and roped her close faster than a cowboy with a lasso.

She saw him lift his arms. Saw his scowl. Felt a wild whoosh of shock when he folded her into him, when his soft, whiskey-sharp mouth took hold of hers.

How could she possibly have guessed this was coming? Yeah, of course she'd kissed him before, but those had been thank-you kisses. Maybe she'd felt more. Maybe she'd felt so thoroughly swept under that her entire body had suffered a
pizzazz
alert. But even if he was a good-looking guy with an unprecedented high-tingle factor, she'd never communicated a come-on. She knew she hadn't. For one thing, she had no business adding a complication to her life right now. And for another, darn it, she needed him to be what he was, a good neighbor next door, and she couldn't afford to mess with that.

Besides which, it hadn't crossed her mind that he felt That Way toward her.

Until now. Now changed things, but this was sure as Sam-Hill a come-on.

And a darn good one.

Slowly she slid her arms around his neck and hung on. She'd been kissing men who were way too young, she realized abruptly. Because there was a world of difference between a man of experience and a guy in his twenties who was just hot to get his rocks off. Not that there was anything wrong with the rocks thing. But she'd never felt remotely in danger with a man before.

She sure did now.

It was the difference between taking a commercial flight and skydiving.

Jack was the skydive. Heaven knew what primed his trigger, but she felt swooshed into his field of gravity at a mighty fast velocity. The scotch on his breath added just enough heat to make his kisses sting. His hands slid down her spine, down to the swell of her bottom, tugged her into him.

Danger whispered through her pulse like a promise. Not “fear” kind of danger, but the other kind. The delicious kind. The kind where a woman felt sucked under by someone stronger than she was, someone who made her feel vulnerable…and vulnerably desired.

He groaned against her lips, a sound that sounded frustrated and hungry both. He went back for another kiss, this one involving tongue and teeth, this one that rocked him back against the counter and laid her against his splayed thighs. Faster than lightning, she felt his rough palms on the backs of her bare thighs, as if his hands had suddenly remembered she was only wearing the giant sized sweatshirt—although that wasn't true.

She'd put on her underpants after the shower. Which he abruptly discovered, because his palms cupped her bare cheeks, his thumb discovering the teensy strip of her thong. Another sound erupted from the way-back of his throat. This one was a sound of suffering. The sound of deep pain from a lost soul. Or a soul that was claiming to be lost.

She almost laughed, and instead just shivered down into the next chain of kisses. There were lots of places she could entice, invite, or just take a bit of initiative herself. Teeth, tongue, throat, ear nips. Then back to the throat. She lifted her hands, slivering her fingers through his thick dark hair, luxuriating in the feel of him, the textures, the sounds, the tastes. She snugged her pelvis in tight, delighted at the hardness she provoked, savoring the feeling of girl power. This was a luge of it. A slick, rich, fast slide into sensation.

He pushed up the sweatshirt, just a little, carving the shape of her hips, the nip of her waist. She didn't fight him.

“You're not,” he murmured painfully, “a good girl.”

“God, I hope not.”

She'd never been shy. But this was different. It was a yearning so fierce it took her breath, a feeling of fragility in a way she'd never felt fragile. Something about Jack's touch, his kisses, made her feel peeled like a grape. It was as if he'd skimmed the skin off her defenses and got straight down to the juice.

Lonely. Who'd guess he was so lonely? He seemed so into his life, so contained, so settled. Yet he seemed to need the nurturing of her kisses, her touch. He seemed to need…connection. She told herself to be careful, that this was crazy and unexpected…but those were just token instincts raising a few feeble objections.

She'd never been one to listen to caution. When something felt right, it usually was. And the rare times she felt drawn—deep-down
really
drawn—to another human being, she couldn't imagine regretting giving in to it.

“Hey,” he murmured suddenly. She wasn't sure where the caution in his voice came from. Until that instant, his hand had been sliding up, one rib at a time, aiming to circle and cup her bare breast. Her breast had already tightened in anticipation. Tightened and ached with waiting, wanting.

Her eyes felt narrowed to slits, her body engulfed in the unexpected, intense wave of surrender. The wanting, the needing, to surrender. She'd never experienced an aching this fierce, compelling. It wasn't an easy sensation. She not only felt vulnerable, but too vulnerable, too laid bare.

“Merry,” he murmured again, in the same forced-caution tone he'd used before. “I don't know what's going on here—”

“I sure do.”

He smiled, but it was a raw smile. Unwilling. A clear struggle for control.

The kitchen came into focus again, the intimacy of their joined shadows against the far wall, the thrum of the refrigerator, the lone sink light. The oven clock claimed the time was nearly three in the morning. As far as she could tell, the two of them were the only ones awake in the universe.

At least in her immediate universe. And Jack looked so worried, so…guilty. She touched his cheek, easing back. “So…we're calling this off, are we?”

“I'm not sure how things went so far, so fast.”

“I'm pretty sure you kissed me. Then A followed B. Although I'm not sure why you started this to begin with. If I remember right, you said something about wanting to stay annoyed with me.”

“Because of this. I meant…if we're annoyed with each other, we wouldn't be inclined to—”

“Snuggle up? But I'm not annoyed with you. I've just felt badly to be so much trouble, Jack. You may not believe it, but I've been a good friend to other people.”

“Of course I believe it.”

“I'm just having a harder time being independent, strong right now. Everything is just so different. Charlie. Trying to climb into her life. Trying to uproot and reinvent mine. I'd be the first to admit I'm over my head right now, but I swear I'm not normally a dependent type. Or one to lean. You've just been…great.”

“Merry?”

“What?”

“I'm not great. I'm not even a good guy. It'd be a really good idea if you quit thinking that.”

He was so damned adorable that she forgave herself for starting to fall in love with him. “Jack?”

“What?”

“I don't see what's wrong about two people clicking together. Honestly, I'm not looking for trouble—and I'm not looking to cause you any, either. But I liked those kisses of yours. I liked the chemistry. And I just don't see a problem here.”

And so she wouldn't stress him out any more, she clipped out of the room and climbed upstairs to bed.

 

S
HE KEPT THINKING ABOUT
Jack's words, even midafternoon the next day, as she tackled the horrendous painting mess back at home. Charlene had worked beside her nonstop, but somehow even that didn't clear Jack from her mind—or heart. It seemed so odd, how and why he'd insisted that he wasn't a good guy. How he'd seemed to be warning her away from something. Him? But why?

“I don't think this paint is ever coming out,” Charlene announced.

Merry knee-walked over to the spot in question, where an unbelievable blend of colors now stained the grout Charlie was scrubbing. The wax was back in the hair. The ironed fatigues were back on. “Charlie, you've been cleaning with me for two hours.”

“Yeah, so?”

“It isn't normal. You should be complaining. You should be calling me names. You shouldn't be volunteering. You should be stomping around, screaming that I'm a creep to make you help.” Merry shouldn't have to explain to an eleven-year-old how an eleven-year-old was supposed to behave. Five-year-olds worked at being good. Middle-schoolers practiced the art of back talk and rebellion and incessant complaining. Everyone knew that. “We're both beat, had a short night's sleep. You should be whining big-time.”

Charlie had to hear her, but just circled back to the original problem. “What if the paint doesn't come out?”

“Well then, several things could happen. One is that we could have red-and-purple grout in this spot until kingdom come. Another is that somebody at Lowe's or Home Depot will know what product to use to make it come out. Another is that we panic and take out the whole floor and put in a whole new one. Maybe one without grout. Whether we choose A, B, or C, I suspect life'll go on okay.”

The kid smiled. “Yeah, I know.”

Merry only wished the smile were a real one, but it seemed today they were back to the status quo. Charlie didn't fight her about anything. She was trying hard to be as good as a saint, unless some emotional buttons were unexpectedly pushed—like accidentally bringing up the Dougall boy and the fight in school.

But her niceness was starting to scare Merry. Cripes, with Jack, Charlie'd been natural, babbling on through the blood-and-guts movie, gulping down that pizza, sprawled all over the floor. With her, Charlie acted polite as a duchess. Maybe not that bad. But close.

She couldn't keep it up, Merry thought. You could keep a face on with strangers, or with people you worked with indefinitely. But where you lived, you had to know you could let down your hair. You had to have a place where you felt safe.