Fallen Angel (10 page)

"Something wrong?" she finally asked.

Thomas withdrew his hand, then deftly signed as he spoke. "Not touching you for more than a week has been hell, but now that I have, everything feels right again."

Amazed by his statement, she whispered, "I’m glad."

"I feel good when I’m around you."

"You’ve been a stranger to happiness in recent years, haven’t you?"

He nodded. Although he didn’t seem put off by her observation, he changed the subject. "I gather you’re about to start making wreaths."

"For the shop. I love the scent of the pine needles. So do my customers. I’m also giving some serious thought to adding decorated wreaths to our Fall catalogue next year, but it means hiring additional staff."

"Makes sense from a marketing standpoint," Thomas commented.

They made their way along the quarter–mile pathway that led to the potting shed in a companionable silence. Geneva couldn’t help her realization that she’d never before shared even the simplest pleasures or tasks with a man she loved.

Now, she stood on the brink of change. And she welcomed it, just as she wanted to welcome Thomas into her life.

After the boughs were deposited in the potting shed and they’d removed their heavy coats and gloves, Geneva led the way into the kitchen. She filled two mugs with hot mulled cider, added cinnamon sticks to each mug, and preceded Thomas into the living room.

"How about a fire?" he asked.

"Please. Matches are on the mantle."

She settled onto the couch that faced the fireplace, sipping cider as Thomas stacked logs on the grate, added kindling and wadded up newspaper, then put a flame to the arrangement. Geneva couldn’t deny herself the pleasure of watching him. Tall and leanly muscled, he moved with a fluid masculine grace. She recalled Rose telling her that he’d been an accomplished athlete all through school.

She understood why as her gaze moved up his powerful legs to narrow hips encased in age–softened denim that hugged him like a lover, past his flat belly, which she suspected was ridged with muscles, and on to his wide shoulders. She remembered clinging to those shoulders as her body had splintered in the throes of a mind–shattering climax, just as she remembered the strength of his embrace and the way her nipples had tightened to aching points of need as he’d held her close. They puckered tightly now at the thought of his mouth fastened to the sensitive tips, his tongue swirling, his teeth gently scraping over her skin.

Geneva shivered with arousal. The cider in her mug sloshed. Grabbing her napkin after setting aside the mug, she dried her fingers.

When she lifted her gaze to his face, she realized by his expression that Thomas understood the imaginative journey her thoughts had just taken. She felt foolish until she noticed the condition of his lower body.

She noticed, too, the tightening of his jaw and the darkening of his eyes. She held her breath for a long moment, swamped by emotions she suddenly couldn’t control, emotions like hope and uncertainty, desire and anxiety, and the promise of love. She suddenly loathed her lack of experience, but then it occurred to her that Thomas could teach her whatever she wanted to learn.

He sank into a wing chair directly across from her. The intensity of his gaze prompted Geneva to fill in the silence between them.

"How’s the unpacking coming along?" she asked, then hated the fact that she’d revealed her nervousness by asking such a dumb question.

"Almost done, thanks to Rose. She’s been great."

"She’s a wonderful woman. I’ve never known anyone like her." Geneva fell silent. She couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t sound inane.

"When I saw you the day before yesterday, you were exhausted. You look more rested."

"I was tired, but I’m fine now. This is our busy season, so my schedule’s pretty demanding. Late spring and the summer months are a restful time, though." Geneva smiled. "Playing hooky agrees with me, although it’s a bit self–indulgent."

"I missed seeing you at the shop today."

"You see me almost every day."

"During the workday, and we’re both usually on the run." He gave her a meaningful look. "It’s not enough, Geneva. Not nearly enough."

She felt the same way. Setting aside her mug, she got to her feet and approached the fireplace. She moved the screen into position as the flames licked at the sides of the logs atop the grate.

Squaring her shoulders, she finally turned to face Thomas. "You promised not to rush me."

"I haven’t."

"No, you haven’t, and I’ve appreciated it."

"It’s been damn tough, but it was what you needed." He studied her for a long moment. "You haven’t said anything about what happened between us at the lodge."

"What do you want me to say?"

He looked momentarily surprised by her question. "I’d like to know how you feel."

"I’ve thought about it a lot," she admitted.

"So have I."

"You surprised me, and I… surprised myself."

"I still want you, but even more now."

Her pulse raced. She fought for control, fought the urge to take his hand and lead him up the stairs to her bedroom. It was too soon, and she knew it. "I don’t have any regrets about what happened between us, Thomas."

"None?"

"None whatsoever. We’re obviously attracted to each other."

"There’s more going on here than a sexual attraction."

Geneva agreed. "I think so. At least, I hope so."

"And you’ve tried to analyze every bit of it, haven’t you?"

His insight didn’t surprise her. Thomas Coltrane didn’t miss much, and that made him a mixed blessing. She shrugged. "I have to confess, I’ve been accused by my friends of over thinking most situations."

"Where do we go from here?"

She smiled suddenly. "My experience is pretty limited."

He laughed. "And mine isn’t?"

"If the shoe fits…"

He grimaced at the cliché. "You’re waiting for me to make the next move."

"I kind of thought that you were. Making moves, I mean."

"I want you every time I see you."

His blunt remark simply heightened the desire she felt, but she pointed out the obvious. "That’s chemistry."

"Wanting you is only a part of the equation."

"What are the other parts?" she asked.

"I like you."

"I like you, too."

"You trust me."

"Instinctively, rather than logically."

"I trust you, Geneva."

His admission caught her off guard. It also validated something she’d suspected. "You don’t usually trust women, do you?"

"Rarely."

"Why not?"

"Bad experience, courtesy of my ex–wife. I don’t usually let anyone that close anymore."

"You’re being very honest with me."

Thomas didn’t speak for almost a full minute. Geneva held her breath and waited.

"There’s a lot at stake between us," he finally said.

"I know," she whispered. Her thoughts snagged then on her past, the small group of people who populated her insular world, and her dream that she would someday be accepted for herself.

He shook his head, a rueful smile on his lips. "I’m starting to remember the awkward days of my youth."

She sobered, his reference to his teens a jarring reminder of how unconventional hers had been. "My youth never included conversations like this one."

"Nor mine."

Turning away from the fireplace, she began to walk back to the couch, but he reached out and captured her hand, halting her. Geneva squeezed his fingers, then slipped free of his hold.

"What did your youth include?" he asked as she resumed her seat on the couch.

She shrugged. "Lots of different things."

"That’s illuminating."

She flushed. "Sorry, the evasion was pure reflex."

"A self–protective one, I suspect."

"Maybe." She paused, briefly weighed her options, and forged ahead. "Yes. I’m very self–protective. I’m also protective of my friends."

"Secrets about your past… and your friends’ pasts?" Thomas asked.

She nodded.

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees and the palms of his hands pressed together as he pondered her. "I wouldn’t ever betray you."

"I’ve finally realized that."

"Then we’re making progress. Why don’t you tell me about your childhood?" he invited.

"What would you like to know?"

Thomas leaned back in his chair. "Anything that suits you. Your comment a few weeks ago about not living a normal life intrigued me."

She ran her fingertip along the rim of the mug sitting on the lamp table beside the couch. Thomas wasn’t prying. And people got acquainted by sharing information, both past and present, about themselves. His curiosity was normal. She met his gaze. Still, she hesitated. She didn’t know where or how to begin.

As if sensing her uncertainty, he helped her. "Where were you born, Geneva?"

"In Boston. I spent my early years there, as well."

"An only child?"

"Yes. My mother couldn’t have any other children after me. My father told me that they’d planned to have at least a half dozen."

"You must have had cousins."

"Too many to count. My mother was one of eight children. After my father left, Erin and I moved in with my grandparents."

"Erin?"

She nodded. "My mother. Erin Talmadge. She died when I was twelve."

Thomas frowned. "Erin Talmadge? The concert pianist?"

"Yes."

"She was a legend in the music world. An international sensation. Quite a remarkable woman, like her daughter."

Geneva considered the night and day differences between a pianist capable of transporting her audience to the heights of pleasure with her extraordinary talent and an explosives expert who could take down a bridge or a high–rise with a few well–placed charges in the middle of a warzone. There was no comparing the two as far as she was concerned. She’d concluded long ago that her penance for a misspent youth was her deafness. Never again would she be able to listen to the old recordings of her mother’s Carnegie Hall concerts.

"Mother was quite unique. No one will ever be like her, least of all me."

His gaze narrowed. "You’re very hard on yourself."

"I’m a realist, Thomas."

Geneva glanced at the blazing logs in the fireplace, keenly aware of just how disappointed Erin Talmadge would have been had she witnessed her daughter’s life.

"… Patrick…he was your father?"

As she looked again at Thomas, she caught only a part of his question. She frowned. "How did you know his name?"

"I heard that part of your conversation with Nick when I tripped over you two in the hallway that first day."

"Patrick was my father. He was an engineer… and a self–confessed vagabond."

"Is that all he was?"

She exhaled, treading carefully through her memories as she decided which parts to reveal and which to censor. "Patrick dabbled, and he loved what he called
grand adventures
. He also liked living on the edge."

"And did you live on the edge, too?"

"Yes, but only after my mother died. She didn’t approve of Patrick’s wanderlust. He traveled the world, went to places most people either dream about or avoid like the proverbial plague. It’s why their marriage failed, although I feel certain that Erin died loving him."

"Define living on the edge for me," Thomas urged.

"I’m not sure I can."

"Try, please."

As she studied his facial expression, she reminded herself that she no longer needed to be so guarded or self–protective, but she proceeded with caution nonetheless. "Patrick liked being smack in the middle of the chaos. So did his friends. Civil wars in Third World countries, governments being overthrown, invasions, terrorist strongholds, that sort of thing."

She took a steadying breath, and then continued. "When Erin died and he showed up at her funeral, I hadn’t seen him in nearly five years. I was almost thirteen then, and you can probably imagine how fascinating he was to me, especially given my sheltered and very proper Boston lifestyle. When Patrick asked me if I wanted to travel the world with him, I jumped at the chance over my grandparents’ objections. Since they couldn’t stop Patrick from claiming me, I packed a suitcase and off we went to explore the world. I had no comprehension of what life with Patrick would entail. It was something of a shock."

"And exciting?"

She smiled, but her expression soon grew contemplative. She shifted her gaze to the fireplace as she talked. "Exciting, terrifying, exotic, and dangerous. I was isolated from people my own age, especially when I was in my teens. Once I was old enough to navigate Patrick’s world, I adapted quite well. I inherited his friends, and they became my family. I can also live out of a single suitcase for months at a time better than anyone I know." The frown on his face told her that her attempt at humor had fallen flat.

"You said he was an engineer. Is that how he supported you both?"

Geneva nodded warily. "In a manner of speaking."

Thomas said nothing. He simply looked at her.

Geneva supplied what she knew he was waiting to hear—the truth. "Patrick was a munitions and explosives specialist."

Surprise flared in his eyes. "He made bombs?"

"Essentially, yes, although he was at the high–end of the spectrum as far as sophisticated bomb making was concerned. He had quite a reputation in the international community."

"He knew Benteen, didn’t he?"

"Quite well." Geneva felt so tense, she feared she might shatter into a thousand pieces if Thomas reacted badly to what she’d just told him.

When he said nothing in the minutes that followed, she got to her feet and walked out of the living room. Her hands shook as she stood at the kitchen stove and refilled her mug.

Geneva told herself that she possessed the strength to survive his departure. And that’s what she expected—that he would leave. After all, Thomas was an intelligent man and more than capable of reading between the lines, and she’d just told him that she was the daughter of a mercenary.

Geneva turned away from the stove to see Thomas standing in the doorway of the kitchen. She controlled the anxiety raging within her by sheer force of will as she watched him make his way across the room.