Cinderella in Overalls (7 page)

“You’re right, you know. I do have a thing against bankers that goes way back. I can’t change it, you can’t change it, no matter what you do. Even if you lend us the money. That’s why it has to be only business between us. Surely you can see that lending us money is good business. We’ll take good care of the truck. We’ll make our payments on time. And you’ll get a whole lot of new customers.” The words were coming faster and faster. She paused to take a breath. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing, in theory. But I told you—”

She brushed past him and walked to the back door. “I know what you’re going to say. I don’t want to hear it again. Let’s drop it. We’re stuck here together for a few more hours. Then you can go back to banking and I can go back to farming.”

Josh felt as if she’d slapped him in the face. “I’m sorry I ruined your day. Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

“You can start a fire out back to barbecue the chicken. That way we won’t have to heat up the house.” She turned and went into the kitchen.

As he tossed branches of apple wood into a pile, he realized she didn’t bother to deny that he’d ruined her day. Well, she hadn’t done much to make his, either. Except for the lunch, and Jacinda had made that. Then there was the encounter under the mango tree, where he had almost lost his control and she had almost given in to the feelings she tried so hard to hide. Was this really a generic hatred of bankers as she claimed, or was it something else, something he couldn’t even guess at?

When she came outside again, the smoke was curling up from the fire. Expertly she threaded the chicken on the spit, and Josh turned the crank until his arm ached and his face was covered with soot. She set the table and brought out a pot of rice and a platter of homegrown tomatoes. Then she poked a fork into the chicken and nodded her approval.

After he washed up, they made polite, impersonal conversation while they ate. But when she wasn’t looking he allowed himself some very personal glances—at the neckline of her T-shirt and the line where her shorts met her thighs. As the shadows lengthened, he studied her profile and the way her hair brushed her cheek. When she got up to get the coffee, he realized he would never see her legs again or the freckles on her knees, because tomorrow she would be wearing her market clothes and that would be the end of it. Of everything.

No more would he make a fool of himself hanging around the Rodriguez Market, waiting to see if she’d appear. No more feeble attempts at bargaining. As she had said, she’d go back to farming and he’d go back to banking. Finally. This had been the longest and most frustrating day of his life. And it wasn’t over yet.

He stood and walked around the yard. It was almost dark. If it hadn’t been for the light from the fire, he wouldn’t have noticed the hammock swaying invitingly in the evening breeze. He leaned against the canvas. It was wide, big enough for two. Fat chance, he told himself. Catherine set two cups on the table and a pot of coffee.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” she cautioned. “That’s where I sleep.”

He straightened. “Don’t worry. I’m just going to stretch out in the back seat of my car. Don’t forget to knock on my window in the morning so I won’t miss the truck.”

“That’s not necessary. You can have my bedroom upstairs. It ought to cool off pretty soon. That way I won’t have to knock on your window. You’ll hear the rooster crow.”

“If you’re sure...”

“I’m sure. I never use it in the summer.” She poured a cup of coffee and delivered it to him, determined to be hospitable to the end which, God willing, would be only a few more hours. Then Josh Bentley would disappear from her life. Hopefully an anonymous tow truck would come to get his car, then she would never have to see him again.

After he finished his coffee, she led him to the small bedroom furnished with only a narrow bed and a chest of drawers. She paused long enough to collect her nightgown from a hook on the wall and a blanket from the foot of the bed. In the dim gaslight on the wall the large outline of his body filled the doorway. She stood at the top of the stairs.

“Do you need anything else?” she asked politely.

There was a long silence while she felt rather than saw his eyes on her.

“Do you?”

She shook her head and hurried down to the kitchen where she changed into her nightgown in the dark. Did she need anything else? Good question. He made her want something else, she knew that, and wants were only a hairbreadth from needs. Needs that were as basic as food and water and just as primal. Her skin prickled as the soft cotton slid over her breasts.

Barefoot, she tiptoed out past the dying embers of the fire and lay down in the hammock, her blanket wrapped around her. As she watched, the gaslight in the upstairs window went out. She closed her eyes tightly and willed herself to go to sleep. But she thought of the man in her room, in her bed, and the thought disturbed her more than she imagined. The light in her bedroom went on again. Why didn’t he go to sleep? He said he’d been up since 5:00.

There was a thumping sound. The sound of someone coming down the stairs in the dark. Then kitchen sounds. Glass clinking against glass. What was he doing?

“Josh?”

He came to the back door. “I can’t sleep. It must be the coffee. I was looking for something to drink.” He lifted a glass.

“There’s fresh water in the icebox.”

He returned to the kitchen, then she saw the outline of his body as he stepped out into the yard, wearing his same clothes, but barefoot, too. He bent his head back and let out an appreciative whistle. “What a view of the southern sky. From my balcony in town it looks like soup.”

“Too much peripheral light,” she agreed.

“Hey, there’s the Southern Cross. I’ve been here for two weeks, and this is the first time I’ve seen it.”

Catherine stood and wrapped her blanket tightly around her instinctively. “Where is it? I’ve been here for eighteen months and I still haven’t found it.”

He came up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders.  “That’s because it’s not really a cross. There’s no central star to mark the X. It looks more like a kite.”

She felt the warmth of his hands through her blanket as she tilted her head back. She told herself she could see the stars just as well from the comfort of her hammock, but for some reason she stayed right where she was, leaning back against his chest, listening to him point out the brilliant Jewelbox cluster and the dark nebula called Coalsack. His deep voice caused vibrations to echo through her body.

“I’ve always wanted to see Scorpio,” she said in a dreamy voice she scarcely recognized as hers. If he had let her go, she would have fallen over backward. But she knew he wouldn’t.

“Actually,” he said softly, his lips against her ear, “the hammock is a better place to watch the constellations.”

Scorpio flashed her a warning signal from four hundred light-years away.

“For you or for me?” she asked.

“It looks as if it’s big enough for two,” he suggested as they walked together toward the hammock.

She hesitated. “I don’t know. I’ve never tried it.” She looked up for a sign from Scorpio, but he seemed to be urging her on, asking her, “What harm would it do to study the sky for a few minutes?” Telling her it was a wide hammock, large enough for two.

But no matter how strong or how wide the hammock, when Josh settled down next to her, their bodies were pressed together, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip and thigh to thigh. He crossed his arms under his head and continued his lecture, apparently unaware of the heat waves he was generating in her body. How could he know he had started a chain reaction a few weeks ago in the marketplace that grew stronger and harder to resist every time she saw him?

The sound of his voice describing the location of the South Pole soothed her, and the constellations blurred before her eyes. She turned onto her side, her back to him. He stopped talking and shifted so that they were back to back. She sighed. She should tell him to leave now and go back upstairs, but it was so hot up there and the air was cool out here. So deliciously cool. And it felt so good to lie there, her back against his. She opened her mouth to tell him... what was it she was going to tell him?

“Do you know what?” she whispered.

“No.”

“You paid too much for the mangoes.’’ There, she’d gotten it off her mind.

Just before she drifted off to sleep, she felt his hand tousle her hair. “I know,” he said, “but it was worth it.”

When the rooster crowed, Catherine sighed and buried her head in her blanket. It took a long moment before she realized she wasn’t alone. She lay perfectly still, afraid to turn and see if Josh was awake. Maybe if she rolled over the edge of the hammock and onto the ground, she could pretend she really hadn’t spent the night as close to Josh Bentley as a person could get. Well, almost as close.

But just as she moved her leg over the side, she felt him shift his weight and drop one arm over her shoulders. She twisted around to face him. In the darkness she saw that his eyes were closed. The shadow of a dark beard grazed his face. A slight smile played at the corner of his mouth. He was breathing deeply. Still asleep.

She felt her muscles relax as she unconsciously matched his breathing with her own, mesmerized by the rise and fall of his chest. What had happened to her plan to slip away? Maybe Jacinda had put something in the wine. Some herb, some magic potion to rob her of her self-control. She wouldn’t put it past her. Jacinda was determined to push her into someone’s arms. Not just someone’s—Josh’s.

Before she realized what was happening, Josh tightened his arm around her shoulders and drew her to him, the half smile deepening. Taking a deep breath, she slid out from under his arm and rolled out of the hammock. A low moan escaped his lips, and Catherine looked down at him, her blanket over her shoulders, her hands on her hips.

“It’s time to get up,” she said firmly, ignoring the sight of his broad chest as he stretched lazily.

He gave her a sleepy smile. “I was in the middle of a dream,” he protested.

“Sorry,” she said briskly. “No time for dreams. The truck will be here in a few minutes. And I know you’re anxious to get to town and get your... whatever it was.”

“My hose.” He sat on the edge of the hammock and ran his hand through his hair, making it stand on end. His clothes were wrinkled, his face lined with sleep, and she realized that he was still the most attractive man she’d ever seen.

She turned quickly before she said something stupid. “I’m going up to change.”

He watched her go, long, slender legs, bare feet hitting the ground as if she were wearing boots. The remnants of the dream clouded his vision. He was holding her in his arms and swaying in a hammock on a tropical beach. The best part was that Catherine wasn’t a dream. If anything, she was more beautiful, more bewitching in real life. The worst part was that sleeping next to him had meant nothing to her. He could tell by the look on her face as she had stood there gazing down at him, announcing the arrival of the truck as if he were a passenger in a bus station.

The harsh beep of a horn broke his reverie. A diesel engine clattered in the distance. He walked across the yard and stood under her bedroom window. “Catherine.”

She leaned out the window, hair braided, shawl in place, and looked down at him.

“Are my shoes up there?” he asked.

Without speaking she threw them down one at a time, and he caught them in one swift motion. Then, very firmly and deliberately, she shut the window and was gone.

“Thanks,” he said loudly to the closed window. Then he washed his face in the kitchen sink, put his shoes on and stood in front of her house. The lights from the truck grew brighter as it came down the hill. At the edge of the road he glared at his useless car. “Traitor,” he said loudly. “Deserter. Where were you when I needed you?” Over the whine of the fast-approaching truck he didn’t hear her walk up behind him.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” she said. “You were saying?”