Harlequin - Jennifer Greene (13 page)

“What in God’s name are you doing?” Bear asked dryly.

Fox glanced up. It was a Bear day—which meant, according to Phoebe’s ridiculous recovery program—that he was supposed to be fishing. For the cause—and fishing was always Bear’s favorite cause—he’d dragged him across the border into South Carolina. Any other time, Fox wouldn’t have minded. Lake Jocassee was a serious piece of paradise—one of those God’s-country kinds of places.

The reservoir of cold, clear water was backdropped by sunlit knolls and mountains, mostly undeveloped—and everyone loved it that way.

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Bear had trailered the boat, bought the live bait as well as a box of proven lucky lures, stashed Fox in the bow and puttered off for an ideal fishing spot. Jocassee was known for trophy trout—also for bass, but it was the brown and rainbow trout Bear wanted for dinner. At this time of day and year fishing wasn’t ideal, but that didn’t deter Bear, who’d already hooked enough to bring Mom two dinners, easy.

Now, though, Bear had unfortunately been distracted. “What are youdoing ?” he repeated.

“What do you mean, what am I doing? I’m sitting here with you.”

Bear sighed and then leaned over to grab one of the books from Fox’s lap. He started reading the titles aloud.“Women and the Law of Property in Early America. The Politics of Social and Sexual Control in the Old South.” Bear scowled at him. “You call this kind of reading relaxing?”

“Well…yes, actually.”

“And you think you’re convincing anybody you’ll never be a history teacher again?” His brother’s voice dripped humor.

“This has nothing to do with teaching! This is pleasure reading!”

“Yeah, right. The point, anyway, is that you’re supposed to kick back andfish . Phoebe told you—”

“All Phoebe insisted on was that I get out of the house. So I’m in the incessant fresh air. What she wanted. That doesn’t mean I have to like fishing.”

“It isn’t human to hate fishing.”

“How long are you going to hold that against me? Give me a ball—foot, base, basket, soccer, whatever, and I’ll whip the pants off you in any of those sports. But sitting here torturing worms on hooks…” Fox shook his head.

“I’ll tell Phoebe on you if you don’t at least pick up a pole.”

“That,” Fox said darkly, “is an ugly, ugly threat. Did I tattle on you when you and Moose put the skunk in the school cafeteria? Did I tell Moose when you threw up on his favorite shirt in high school? Brothers never tell.”

“That was completely different. This is for your own good. Reading a bunch of history is notrelaxing.

Not the way Phoebe said we were supposed to make you. You’re supposed to havefun. ”

“Readingis fun,” Fox said firmly, and opened a book again. He didn’t know which book, because he’d given up trying to concentrate a good hour before. The sun poured on his head, his shoulders. The lake was so clear he could see several mesmerizing feet below. Normally the lake—or reading books he loved—really would have relaxed him. It was just that right now, the only thoughts in his head were about Phoebe.

So maybe they’d only made love once. And possibly it had been ten days, twelve hours and seven minutes since that once, but the entire encounter was still diamond clear in Fox’s mind—and not just the naked parts either.

One of the things that bugged him was how—twice now—she’d suddenly upped and claimed that she
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didn’t have a sexual nature. Both times she’d been in the middle of kissing him senseless. It’d be funny if it wasn’t so…odd. Since she was obviously a natural sensualist to the core, Fox couldn’t fathom why she’d claim something so ridiculous—or want him to believe it.

Of course, all women were impossible to understand at a certain level, so Fox wasn’t dwelling on just that one thing. Other details about that night still tantalized and frustrated him, as well. Color was one.

She had all those colorful rooms in her house—blue, green, yellow and all—yet he still hadn’t seen her bedroom or what color she’d painted it. And then there was the critical issue of panties.

She’d been wearing yoga pants that night. It was typical of her to wear comfortable, easy-moving clothes, but underneath those figure-concealing pants he recalled—in total and exquisite detail—her panties. They’d been thongs. Satiny. They’d been white except for the heart-shaped spanking-red bitsy front patch—which, actually, a guy nearly needed magnifying glasses to see at all.

Still, Fox happened to have been that close up. Hehad seen. And they seemed like a fairly astounding choice of panties for a woman who tended to wear oversize sweaters and pants. Same issue with the house. She’d painted all those sensual, soft colors—yet she freaked if you mentioned that she had a sensual side.

Something was wrong, Fox thought. Well, hell. A lot was wrong, as far as his coming on to a woman when he couldn’t offer her a damn thing. But besides that…something was wrong with Phoebe. Wrong for Phoebe. She was a life lover, a giver, a hedonist, a dare anything kind of woman who stood up. She understood his heart and his feelings better than he had.

She’d helped him so much with her generous, giving ways that it bugged him all the more that there was this problem. Thissomething in her that was off. It was as if she were afraid, or wary. But of what?

“And the other thing that bothered me was her saying she didn’t care if there was a future,” he said irritably.

“Huh?”

“For Pete’s sake, what kind of attitude is that? I mean, it’s one thing if people can’t work out a relationship—not that I like ther word. It’s a stupid word. But when it comes down to it, you meet someone, you work at it, and then it either works out or it doesn’t, right?”

“I think you’re getting dehydrated. There’s more ice water in the thermos,” Bear said patiently.

“I’m just saying, when things go wrong, it doesn’t have to be aboutblame. Usually both people try.

Nobody goes into a deal thinking they’re going to deliberately hurt the other person. I mean, unless they’re complete dolts.”

“Okay. Beats me who you’re talking to, but I’m for the conversation. If we’re going to talk about women, though, I think we should talk about Phoebe.”

Fox suddenly jerked his head around and focused on his brother. “What? I wasn’t talking about Phoebe.”

“I didn’t say you were,” his handsome older brother said cheerfully, but then didn’t speak further because there was a tug on his line. The whole world stopped for a trout. Who could figure. This one was a rainbow, maybe nine inches, fought like a boxer—and won. “Hell,” Bear said, when the fish freed
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itself from the line and took off.

Finally. “What were you going to say about Phoebe?” Fox demanded.

“Well…a couple weeks ago when her name first came up, I was just teasing about asking her out. But April and I quit even playing at making something happen between us. Not like we had a big thing going, anyway. The point, though, is that I really am thinking about asking Phoebe out now.”

“No.”

“No why?”

“No because.”

Bland-faced, Bear tried laying out a few of his dating credentials. “I make good money. Great money, in fact. Got good family genes, can offer a woman security, and I figure I’m pretty close to wanting to settle down. It’s been years since I had fun waking up with a hangover and a new woman. Just no interest in catting around anymore. I’d like a couple of rug rats. A woman I could talk to, be with every night—”

“And that’s fine, just fine. You’re getting really old,” Fox assured him. “You need to settle down. But not with Phoebe.”

“Ah. I get it now.”

“You getwhat now?”

“Moose knows it, too,” Bear said smugly. “That you’ve got a thing for her. We just weren’t sure how serious it was.”

“I don’t—can’t—have a thing for anyone. You think I’d ask a woman out when I don’t even have a job? Don’t have a clue what I’ll be doing even next month?”

“Okay, so right this exact minute you’re not on track yet,” Bear agreed. “But you only had two of those hellion headaches last week.”

And one, Fox thought, that he’d actually dented with that ridiculous exercise of hers—not that he could admit that in public. Even to a brother.

“What I was trying to say,” Bear went on, “is that you finally seem to be headed uphill, Fox. You’re not completely well yet, but you’re definitely on an uphill road. So…”

“So?”

“So, I’ll tell you what. I may or may not ask Phoebe out. But I’ll wait until you’ve finished the whole month’s program that she created, okay? Until you’re better. And that really is the key.”

“Whatkey?” Sometimes following Bear’s conversations was like interpreting politics. You had to weed through the words to get to the meaning. Assuming there was one.

“The key,” Bear said patiently, “is that you need to get better. It’s the best offense and defense you have. That woman’s got you tied up in knots. When you get better, you’ll be strong enough to untie the
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knots, to figure what you really want out of the situation.”

Fox opened his mouth, closed it. He wanted to argue furiously that neither Phoebe nor any other woman had him tied up in knots or ever would, but there wouldn’t be much point in that. She did. Period.

But that didn’t mean Bear had everything right. Fox loved his brother, but Bear was almost always wrong, and this was no exception. He couldn’t possibly wait until he was stronger to fix the situation with Phoebe. Truth was, he doubted he could stand waiting even another minute.

A guy couldn’t just make love with a woman—not when the emotional connection had rocked his world inside and out. And then just go back to do those pansy “safe place” pain exercises as if he and Phoebe were nothing more than accidental business acquaintances.

He couldn’t let her get away with it. Healing him and loving him and giving 300 percent to him at every turn—and then taking zippo in return. The more Fox dwelled on it, the more he realized that he simply had to find out what was bugging her. Either that or risk losing what little mind he had left, because for damn sure, he couldn’t think of anythingbut her until they got this settled.

And after they got this all settled, then they’d make love again.

The more Fox thought about it, the more he figured he had a good plan coming together.

He was still feeling confident the next day, when he parked in her driveway and stepped out, carrying an impressive array of tools. The tools weren’t totally a disguise. She did, after all, have a waterfall that needed constructing. But as he lifted a fist to rap on her front door, he heard the unexpected sound of crying from somewhere in the house. A baby’s crying. And not a little mournful wail, but a full-scale, nonstop scream, as if someone were torturing an infant.

No one could be torturing an infant at Phoebe’s place—not if she were alive—so naturally he panicked.

Either there’d been an accident or some other crisis must have happened. So he pushed open the door, yelled out that he was here, and charged toward the sound of the crying.

He found Phoebe almost immediately, standing in the kitchen, stuffing some kind of long-stemmed, sweet-smelling, sissy purple flowers in a vase. She was barefoot—no surprise. Wearing a long jeans skirt, and a loose tee in bright red. Something bubbled in a pot on the stove—something with garlic and rosemary and some other unidentifiable saucy smell. It was the kind of mysterious sauce smell that could bring a man to his knees. Easily. Phoebe’s back was to him. She was humming softly, moving to an R&B

tune played low on the radio as she fixed her flowers and occasionally stirred the pot. The whole scene looked wonderful…except for the shrieking infant in the front pack strapped to her tummy.

She spun around when she sensed him in the doorway. “Well, hey you.” Her smile was bright and sexy…but not particularly personal. “Did I goof up the schedule? It’s just Wednesday, isn’t it? You’re not due until tomorrow, are you?”

The cheerful question slugged him straight in the gut. It was her reference to “the schedule.” How easily, this whole last week, she’d treated him as a client instead of a lover. He scraped a hand through his hair.

“No, but I—”

“It’s okay,” she said in a normal voice, as if anyone could hear over the infant’s caterwauling. “Come on in. You’re welcome to visit. It’s just that I have Manuel…and the odds of Manuel being quiet are about a thousand to one.”

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She didn’t look shaken by the baby’s screams. As busy as she looked, her left hand stayed in touch with the little one, rubbing and loving and consoling. Because of the baby’s name, Fox assumed it was a boy; otherwise it would have been impossible to tell. The head was bald, the face all squinched up and red from the screaming.

“Manuel came from Chicago,” Phoebe filled in.

“How come you got a baby from so far away?”

“I don’t, usually…but I’ve had contacts with different agencies across the country for a while now.

Everybody’s got the same problems. What to do with throwaway babies. How to turn a baby around when there’s been no bonding or care to start with.” She ambled over, carrying a wooden spoon, lifting it for him to taste. “More salt?”

He tasted. “It’s perfect.”

“I dunno. I think it still needs something. Maybe a little more garlic or more tarragon…anyway. The crime statistics alone could put hair on your chest. Look at a kid in trouble, you’ll almost always find a baby who didn’t bond, didn’t get the nurturing he needed. I don’t have this little sweetie for long. Just three days.”

“Three days is enough to matter?”

“Yes and no. Yes, loving time—touch time—with a baby always matters. And it’ll hopefully be enough to see if we can start him on a different road…”

Fox was interested in the details. The work she did fascinated him. But just then it was hard to concentrate. “You’re sure he’s not sick?”