Blue Willow (50 page)

His breath was hot on her cheek, his belly and thighs pressed tightly to her hips. Blindly cursing, she noted the hard mound of his erection and the amazing desire coursing through her body like mercury.

“Apologize,” he hissed into her ear.

“Make me.”

He circled her with one arm, holding her still. One hand crept under her voluminous skirt, inserted itself between her lower thighs, and began a slow progression upward. “Apologize,” he whispered.

“Make me,” she repeated.

His fingers slid higher. “Garters. How wonderful.” He delved under her sheer silk panties and began stroking her. She bucked against him. “Wet,” he purred. “Wet and hot.
Apologize.
”

“Make me.” Her voice was now a low rasp. She wasn’t helpless, she was taking what she wanted from this man, she told herself. Just as she always used men.

The heat and sudden, plunging intimacy of his fingers poured into her senses and made her shudder. Helpless. Helpless and dazzled by his raw attention, she shut off rational thought. Her legs were spread in uncaring recklessness, her knees digging into the sawdust.

He pulled her skirt to her waist and continued to stroke her, murmuring crusty, explicit endearments. Sensation built inside her quickly, luxuriously, riding the movements of his fingers and urged onward by the throaty, rapid pulse of his breath. She had him, had him right where she wanted him.

The explosion inside her shattered around his careful, thrusting hand. She moaned, shocked and angry and delirious when he pulled his hand away They were both on their knees. He bit the back of her neck gently. Dimly she heard the quick, rough sound of her panties tearing, then his zipper sliding down, and then reason fled in the immediate, smooth ramming of his body into hers. He slammed into her with short bursts of power, and his hoarse sigh of delight drove searing victory into her mind. She had him. He had her. The taking was confused now. Exquisite volleys of pleasure assaulted her again. Rocking against him, she forgot to hold back, to force her way. Her whole body hunched in wild, graceless welcome.

He poured into her to the hilt, his hand caressing her hair, the other twisting deliciously into the waistband of her skirt, pulling her hips upward so that they hung impaled on him.

Coming down was slow and delightfully obscene, with him grinding languidly into her, his hands releasing her only to grasp her buttocks and spread them, making her gasp with pleasure as he sank even farther into her. The
harsh duet of their breathing filled the hallway. She sagged forward, her head resting in the sawdust. When he withdrew, she sighed with the loss.

He kissed the top of her head, then slapped her lightly on the bare rump. The slap became a luscious squeeze, then he smoothed his fingers up and down in the tender, soaking crevices between her hips. Cassandra twisted to her side and lay there in a stupor, wondering how she’d ever look at another man without thinking greedily of him.

Suddenly he pushed something soft and bulky into her hand.
The money
. “Take it back. Keep it for next time,” he said wryly.

She shoved herself upright and jerked her skirt down, smiling at him, beckoning him with one forefinger. He handed her purse to her. But when he leaned forward to kiss her, she dodged his head and caught one of his ears between her teeth. He shouted in pain and lurched backward.

They stared at each other, his ear crimson and indented with deep furrows. The slow, amazed smile that lifted his mouth sent shock waves of pleasure through her. “You are the woman for me,” he said.

He wasn’t like Armande. He wasn’t like any other man she’d known. For once in her life she couldn’t think of anything cynical to say or do, any plan to keep a man under control. She’d never let him know how frightened she was. When he took her hands and kissed them with absurd gallantry, and she blushed, Cassandra knew she was in trouble.

Hot air puffed through the low, open shed from humming attic fans set in the rafters, carrying the scent of summer and suntan-lotioned vacationers, and the sweet, smoky aroma of a barbecue stand. Lily leaned back in a lawn chair, trying to catch the breeze on her face and studying the crowded aisle from behind dark sunglasses. Old shade trees hung over the building, making a cool canopy, inviting people to wander away from the bright sidewalks and sunny shop doors on the town square.

She looked forward to these Sundays at the flea market, where fifteen dollars rented a cubicle and a chance to rest. Most Sundays she sold almost everything she brought—vegetables, bedding plants, and willow saplings, and went home with a couple of hundred dollars in her pocket, to be divided, fifty-fifty, with Mr. Estes.

The money was important to her—so far, her split of the profits was the only income she had—but she craved the human contact more. She soaked up the shoppers’ serenity, admired their children, and made carefree small talk with other vendors—the bohemian young artists selling custom jewelry and wooden flutes, the potter with his earth-stained hands and creaking, foot-pedaled potter’s wheel, the old couple weaving split-oak baskets, and all the rest.

For one day a week she was forced to live outside herself, to smile at someone’s red-haired little boy when she wanted to cry, and pretend that the sight of couples holding hands or with their arms draped comfortably around each other’s waists didn’t make her ache with loneliness.

She pulled a wide-brimmed hat lower over her
eyes
and rose to help someone who was asking about the willow saplings, which stood like a dozen short, delicate sentinels at the edge of a table, their rootballs bound in burlap bags. Lupa stretched and licked her bare ankle above her tennis shoes. The sleepy golden dog lay flat on her side under a wooden table sagging with fat, glossy vegetables arranged in small baskets. The market’s dirt floor had been covered in a deep layer of pine shavings. Each time Lily scratched her head with the toe of a shoe, Lupa’s bushy tail swept tiny curls of sweet pine back and forth.

She sold a sapling and handed the man a sheet of handsomely typeset planting instructions and botanical information. Last week she’d unpacked the computer and printer she’d saved.

Slipping his twenty-dollar bill into the pocket of her loose khaki shorts, she pulled a small pad and pen from the same pocket. As she jotted a note about the sale, she glimpsed a tall, lanky man from the corner of her eye.
Topsiders with no socks, tan trousers, a white golf shirt with the tail out—her distracted assessment rose to his lean, handsome face, sandy hair, and large eyes. A jolt of recognition. She swiveled toward him, her hand motionless over the pad.

Michael Colebrook stood close by the table, studying her with his head slightly tilted, his expression pensive. “Hello, Lily.”

She put her pad and pen away, stalling for time to analyze him and her reaction. He and Elizabeth Colebrook had always seemed like thoughtful, gentle souls compared to James, Cass, and Julia. She remembered that he’d stood up gallantly as she’d entered Marcus DeLan’s office last year. And that neither he nor Elizabeth had ever said anything accusing or cruel to her.

Michael did not look hostile now. In fact, he seemed respectful as he glanced from her to the tables, then at the snoring Lupa underneath them, and the willows. “I hope you’re doing well here.”

“Do you?” she blurted, but there was no sarcasm in it. He had sounded sincere. She wanted to believe at least one of Artemas’s siblings didn’t hate her.

“Yes.”

They traded an awkward silence. She removed her sunglasses and hung them from the neck of her loose white tank top. “I assume you’re visiting at the estate.”

He nodded. “All of the family’s there for a few days.” Michael paused, watching her closely “You must be worried that you’ll be invaded by suspicious, hostile Colebrooks again.”

“It’s always a possibility.”

“This isn’t an invasion.” He fumbled with a pocket of his trousers and pulled out a sleek leather wallet. When he opened it, she saw one of her new business cards tucked inside. The card was pale blue with a willow etched on it in black, beside
BLUE WILLOW NURSERY AND GREENHOUSE
, in script. Mr. Estes was listed as the owner, with her name, Lily MacKenzie Porter, and
Award-Winning Landscape Designer
, beneath. “I picked this up when I was having a cup
of coffee at a diner,” he said, frowning mildly. “I met a garrulous old fellow who was thumbtacking one of the cards to the community bulletin board by the door.”

“Mr. Estes,” she said, her tone tense but droll. “He’s in charge of publicity.”

“He didn’t know I was one of his hated Colebrooks. I’m sure he would have tried to stick a thumbtack in my forehead if he’d realized.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“He volunteered that your place isn’t open to the public yet.”

“No, not yet. We’re just trying to drum up some landscaping accounts.” She hesitated. “It’s the first time we’ve used the Blue Willow name publicly. If you’re here to confront me about that—”

“No.” He fumbled with his wallet, scowling, his hands as lanky as the rest of him. A laminated photo fell out and landed under the table, near Lupa’s nose. The dog licked it with a curious tongue. Michael ducked down along with Lily, who reached the photo before he did. Lily winced when she saw the pleasant, bespectacled young woman smiling benignly at her. His dead wife? Tamberlaine had told her once about the loss and how devastated Michael had been.

Lily stood quickly, as he did. The distress on his face touched her. “I’m sorry,” she said, placing the photo in his outstretched hand.

“No harm done.” He wiped it with the tail of his shirt, almost as if polishing it, his head down, while Lily watched in silent sympathy. “I’m sorry about your wife,” she amended. “I understand.”

He put the photo and his wallet away, then looked at her with troubled, searching eyes. “I’m sure you do. You’ve been through hell in the past year and a half. My family is aware of that.”

“But you’d all be happier if I’d move to Timbuktu or someplace equally outside the Colebrook social circle.”

“Maybe. But you’re not about to leave, are you?”

“No.”

“Then I, for one, am telling you that I don’t consider you an enemy, and I wish you and my brother could live near each other in peace.” He studied her shrewdly, but without accusation. “Lily, our faith in our sister isn’t a slap in the face to you and all you’ve lost. Please don’t take it that way.”

“Are you speaking for James and Cassandra too?” He looked defeated. Lily wavered. The kindness and respect he had offered her meant more than she’d admit to him. She said gently, her throat burning, “I wish you were. And I wish Artemas weren’t caught in the middle.”

He dipped his head in subtle acknowledgment. “Your friendship with my brother—” he began carefully.

“Is something I miss,” she finished.

“I’m certain my brother wants to help you. That’s not something I oppose. This family can certainly survive any gossip your friendship might cause.” He arched a brow. “Believe me, our reputation has survived much worse.”

“You’re a romantic. I appreciate that.”

“Yes, I am a romantic. I’ve lost someone I loved, someone I can barely live without, and if I thought my brother had lost—”

“Stop now. You’re going off down the wrong road, and it’s a dead end. Don’t let your imagination run away with you.” Lily couldn’t breathe. She wanted this conversation over, before she said too much, or the wrong thing. “Excuse me. I have a customer waiting over there.” She called to the pleasant, round-faced little man who had been shifting anxiously from foot to foot, and now appeared to be trying to hide behind a display of macramé at another booth. “How are you doing, Mr. Canton? I remembered to save all the cucumbers for you this week.”

“I, I, oh my,” Mr. Canton said, turning red. Michael lifted his gaze in Mr. Canton’s direction and stared at him. Mr. Canton waved his hands mysteriously, turned, and fled into the crowd. Lily rubbed her neck and watched in openmouthed dismay. She felt Michael’s gaze on her. When she met his eyes, he asked slowly, “He comes here every week?”

“I think he runs a restaurant over in Victoria. He buys at least half of my vegetables.” Astonished by Mr. Canton’s strange behavior, she added, “Either he’s had a fit of shyness or he’s got a secret past as a gun-runner, and he thinks you’re an FBI agent.”

Michael searched her face. When he seemed convinced she meant what she said, he told her, “He doesn’t run a restaurant. He runs the kitchen at the estate.”

She felt the blood draining from her face. Speechless, alarmed, and struck with guilt for no reason except the feeling of being exposed—it was as if the karma Little Sis believed in had come home to roost with scalding irony—she shook her head numbly “You’re mistaken.” A weak denial was better than none at all. “He told me—”

“I’m not saying you knew. I can see that you didn’t.” Frowning thoughtfully, Michael touched a basket of tomatoes. “I’ll tell Chef Harvey”—he looked at her dryly—“that’s the title he likes—I’ll tell him that I have no problem with his choice of produce suppliers. He always buys the best. I’m sure Artemas would approve. If he knew.”

Lily sat down limply in her chair. Michael smiled at her reassuringly and walked away.

Artemas draped one arm across the convertible’s torn vinyl seat and steered with the tips of his fingers. He couldn’t rationalize why he’d bought a ’57 Chevy convertible with rusty tail fins and no muffler, except that when he’d seen it sitting in the yard of a service station with a
FOR SALE
sign stuck to the windshield, he thought, It’s almost as old as I am, and it looks the way I feel.

He took the narrow road to the estate’s gate. As he rounded a curve, he saw Lily ahead, walking along the grassy roadside.

Her hair streamed down her back in a pony tail. She looked like a redheaded scarecrow in long, baggy, denim shorts and a floppy T-shirt. She was magnificent, nonetheless.

And she was leading an enormous pig.

He geared the growling convertible down to low and approached at a careful pace. Lily; her eyes covered in black sunglasses and a tractor cap pulled low over her brow, glanced over her shoulder at him and stopped. The pig heeled obediently. It wore a black leather harness and leash. It had a Harley-Davidson tattoo on one shoulder, and a double set of obscenely flopping teats.