Devil Moon (2 page)

He followed the sound. It was real, not his imagination. Was it a cat? No, it really sounded like crying. Female crying. Hell, he'd heard that enough during his marriage to recognize it all right.

Brush in his path thinned out as he reached rockier ground. Then there were only jagged ledges to navigate as he rounded a bend and came upon her–a pale form in the moonlight, curled on a blanket by the water.

Hair fanned out above her head. Turned away from him, her naked shoulders and back curved down to the rise of hips and a white, beautifully formed bottom.

Christ, Phil knew he should just turn around and look for another fishing spot. But he couldn't go away, couldn't stop moving toward her. Drawn…pulled by an irresistible force. He paused for a moment and quietly put the rod and box down, then continued on the path, attracted by a fascination he didn't stop to analyze.

The sounds she made broke his heart. When he'd heard crying like this before it had been through a locked door. He dimly remembered standing in the hall, slapping at the wood, too drunk to put it together or be any help at all. But tonight he was stone-cold sober.

He dropped to his knees before her shaking body. Loneliness and despair radiated from her, emotions he recognized only too well. His fingers reached and touched a smooth shoulder. He wanted to help. Put an end to the pain–if only for a few stolen moments. Scooping her up against his chest, he fully edged down on the quilt. Holding, helping, healing. That's all he meant to do.

Maddie drifted in some personal nether world. Half asleep, she saw a kaleidoscope of Thomas moments. The teasing beginning, the happy middle and the betrayal of the end. She gasped, feeling herself suddenly against a warm chest, wrapped in security. Dreaming Thomas had returned to her, she lifted her arms and clasped them around his neck, pressing her face against his shoulder.

Thomas? No, not Thomas. Better than Thomas, warmer. A dream man, then. Exactly what she needed. Sometimes an overactive imagination paid off. Oh, yes, this is what she wanted, longed for. Lord, Dream Man smelled really good, too. Tasted good. Felt good.

She let loose–an explosion of estrogen and emotion.
Come on, Dream Man, fly me to the moon.

Her need engulfed Phil. She kissed his neck, entwined her limbs about him. She smelled of sweet wine, chocolate, the lake and woman. He'd only meant to offer comfort, but she dragged him into her tilting, sensual universe.

He struggled against the temptation. Against the rush of desire.

Oh man.
Oh man, oh man.

She trailed a line of kisses down his neck and found the material of his shirt displeasing. Buttons flew as she ripped his shirt apart. Hot hands darted over him. He tried to still them. Honest to God, he did.

Never opening her eyes, she nestled against the curly hair on his chest. He savored the feminine scent tickling his nose.
Okay, sweetheart, we'd better call it quits.

Before he could pull away, she shoved him flat on his back. Phil found himself covered by a ravenous Moon Goddess. She nuzzled his pecs, making the blood rush to his groin.

Oh, Jeez, when was the last time he'd felt this great? Just another second and he'd put an end to it.

She rose over him; silky hair concealed her face. His eyes lit on a trio of small moles on her white throat. Glimmering light glowed around her milky skin, making it all seem like a dream. How could he resist the bountiful breast poised so close to his mouth? When he encircled her with his lips, the Moon Goddess moaned and writhed.

Then her hand found him, caressing, arousing.

Oh God. Oh, Jeez. Oh, man.

Phil Wilcox gave up the struggle of conscience and accepted the gift. One night of ethereal oblivion, a magic carpet ride to the stars.

On the handcrafted squares of Grammy's quilt, they entered their personal world of sizzling sensuality. Nobody else existed—only the Dream Man and the Moon Goddess. Cocooned in moonbeams, silvery light sparkled around them, swirling, spinning.

A face on the giant orb in the shimmering sky appeared and grinned. Oh, how he enjoyed bringing these mortals together...That ol’ Devil Moon.

I used to be Snow White, but then I drifted.

Mae West

The chill of the predawn morning roused Maddie, not to mention the lumpy sand under Grammy's quilt. Finding herself wrapped in one side, she stretched and unfurled herself from the blanket, still luxuriating in the afterglow of that fabulous dream. Then she heard a noise, a sort of buzz saw snoring, manly noise. Opening one eyelid and then the other, she viewed a shoulder. Traveling her vision upward, she saw a thick neck and a masculine head above the shoulder.

Oh my God
, a voice whispered in her mind.
OH MY GOD!
That same voice screamed in her brain.

Eyes wide open, dreadfully, fully awake, she sat up, focusing in the dwindling moonlight. She noted the discarded clothes, the fishing rod and tackle box. Giggly hysteria threatened to overtake her.

He's caught himself a big one all right.

Then she returned her gaze to the masculine figure beside her. Though turned away from her, she took a quick inspection of him in the dim light. Most of his face was buried in Grammy's quilt. Short buzz-cut hair, thick arms and a muscular back. She didn't see a lot of flab. Nice buns. He reminded her of a teddy bear.

He made a smacking, snorting sound and she panicked at the thought of him waking up. What had she done? Feeling the languid hum in her solar plexus, she
knew
what she'd done. Maddie-madness had struck again.

The whole event made her cringe with embarrassment.
Run, escape, fly away
. She grabbed her clothes and pulled them on. She dashed up the incline toward the safety of her cabin. Looking back, she wished she could take the quilt without disturbing him. Impossible. He lay sprawled all over it. Another buzzing of his lips sent her running. She'd come back for it later. After he left.

* * *

Squawking crows awakened Phil. For a moment he wondered where he was and why he wasn't in his small bedroom. Then he remembered. The enlarged moon, the weeping woman, being engulfed by need and desire. Sitting up, he ran his fingers through his short hair, feeling the prickle of the ends across his fingers. Looking around, he grabbed his clothes and quickly pulled them on. His eyes searched the horizon for the mysterious nymph. He shook his head wondering if he'd hallucinated the whole thing, but then he glanced down at the quilt.

Hallucinations didn't leave blankets behind.

The woman probably felt embarrassed. He certainly felt a twinge of chagrin. He thought he was well past the age of one-night stands, remembering the days when women made themselves readily available at post-game celebrations. That kind of meaningless encounter turned him off nowadays.

But somehow last night wasn't meaningless. Echoes of passion reverberated in his mind. She'd been soft and cool, intense and hot all at the same time. Warmth infused his chest as he pictured her outline in the moonlight, the swell of her hips. She'd been a sweet, sweet gift. Mercy granted to a lowdown sinner such as himself.

Perhaps he should go knocking door to door, blanket in hand and apologize for his rash behavior. Or perhaps thank the lady for a really great trip to the moon. He recalled nothing of her face, only those three luscious dots on her throat and the rest was all sensual memory.

Though desire to meet her nudged him, in the end he decided to leave well enough alone and move on down the road. The lady obviously had issues and God knew he dragged around enough of his own baggage. They were two people who'd met each other's needs on a lonely, hot summer night. Why spoil the memory of a fabulous encounter?

He gathered up his tackle box and fishing pole, then spied the homey quilt on the ground.
What the hell
. Impulsively, he threw it over his arm, a souvenir of a secret sweet memory he could roll around in his mind when the bitterness in his life became overwhelming.

Heading to his car through the wooded path he softly whistled,
It Was Just One of Those Things.

* * *

Maddie stood in the shower, using all the hot water, washing the night away. She had really gone bonkers. She could blame the wine, blame the hormones. Blame the Man in the Moon.

Don't be ridiculous. You've got no one to blame but yourself. A Harris takes full responsibility
.

Stepping out and wrapping herself in a fluffy white towel, she tried to get her head on straight. She was Madeleine Harris, a stiff-necked, upright paragon of moral sanctity. Her mother was a Woodbridge, of the Boston Woodbridges, whose only lapse in protocol had been to fall in love with an Arkansas backwoods boy. Beau Harris had claimed his highbrow bride, then taken Boston by storm with his devastating charm and savvy business sense. What would her parents say if they knew of last night's escapade?

She patted herself and bent over to catch her slick hair in a turban-towel twist. She stood upright and gazed at herself in the mirror. Blue eyes stared back with a hint of alarm. Was that a love bite on her throat? Yes, right beneath the trio of moles.

Oh, heavens to Betsy and great day in the morning
!

Last night she'd really gone over the edge. What would the school say, if they knew? Madeleine Harris, prim and proper assistant principal at Beaver Cove High, baying at the moon and getting laid by a wandering fisherman. And, oh Lord, what would all those girls she lectured in Female Health call her if she confessed she'd had unprotected sex with a total stranger…A skank. Not just a skank, a
stupid
skank. The list of STD's went through her mind–herpes, gonorrhea, syphilis…AIDS.

She exited her steamy, tastefully decorated bathroom and entered her bedroom. The knap of the new carpet comforted her bare feet. She inhaled deeply, trying to center herself.
Serenity now
. Not working. The taupe walls and peaceful landscapes failed to calm her jitters.

Maddie swore she would go see that herbalist Randy always talked about. There must be something growing in a rainforest somewhere to keep her from going on these wild hormonal tangents. She needed to get under control, keep all her loose threads bound up. She sat on her flowered quilt bedspread, inert, tempted to just roll up into a ball and die right then and there.

Then Grammy materialized at the foot of her bed. "No use frettin'. He didn't look too diseased to me. Looked damn good to these old eyes. Get off your ass and quit feeling sorry for yourself."

Not again. Maddie threw an arm over her eyes, fell back on the mattress, and groaned. Surely these conversations with Grammy were normal, just a role-playing thing.

"I am
not
going crazy," she muttered.

But then, schizophrenics heard voices, saw people that weren't there, didn't they? Maybe she was like that fellow in
A Beautiful Mind
.

She peeked toward the specter at the foot of the bed. A gray-headed figure clad in a floral day dress wavered before her, lips pursed in true Grammy-irritation.

Oh, this isn't looking good
.

"Go away," Maddie hissed.

Mercifully, Grammy disappeared when the phone rang. Maddie reached across her nightstand and eased up against her many decorative pillows.

"Hello?"

"Maddie, my dove, how are you this bright Sabbath morning?"

Ah...Randy, her best friend and light-in-the-heels drama teacher at the school. He could make her laugh with his sweet, naughty ways. An image of his merry brown eyes under the shock of wavy dark hair cheered her.

She really needed a shot of Randy about now. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. How would you like to take me out to breakfast?"

"Ooo, a confessional! I can hardly wait. Get on your best bonnet and Father Randy will be there in half an hour."

Maddie sighed as she hung up. Thank God for Randy. The one person who knew all her foibles and loved her anyway. Of course, she kept Randy's secrets under lock and key in her mind. That's what lifelong friends were for.

She heaved her bones off the bed, decided she'd get organized, go to another town and take blood tests, deal with whatever the consequences of her actions might be. Then her mind tripped on that word again, "test." Grimly, she realized she'd have to add "pregnancy test" to her list.

Oh, that damned Devil Moon.

* * *

Maddie and Randy drove to their favorite greasy spoon, the Hillbilly Heaven Café, nestled in the rocky Arkansas hillside. Randy always expected the stuffed animal heads on the wall to start talking like Disney characters. And he winced at the bad art for sale on the walls. Still, he wouldn't trade this hole-in-the-wall for the finest New York bistro. He loved the strong coffee served in sturdy mugs and the vinyl tables topped with vases of tacky plastic flowers.