Harmony (41 page)

In the quiet of the room, she listened to Tom breathing to the music of the fire in the hearth. Outside, the skies had darkened; Tom had drawn the shades. They hadn't lit any lamps in the room; the flames from the fireplace bathed the pale walls in a cozy amber hue.

Closing her eyes, Edwina's thoughts drifted. . . .

Edwina . . . I love you.

The significance of Tom's words had momentarily stalled her pulse, until she'd read through them and gleaned that the sentiment had been spoken good-naturedly, as one would speak to a younger brother or sister—not as a man to a woman, truly meaning everything the endearment could represent.

Though the realization had made her ache when she recognized the truth, she was thankful he didn't really love her. He couldn't possibly. Not when she'd told him she would never marry. And if he did . . . for some reason . . . fall in love with her . . . well, she wouldn't let him. She just couldn't.

But what about her? What if she accidentally fell in love with him? It would be horrible, damning everything
she was working toward—self-sufficiency, her independence, her life as she'd mapped it out after Ludlow. Oh, she hated to think about the consequences of loving Tom Wolcott. Adamantly, she fought against even the thread of a notion that maybe she could—was.

“Are there any more of those lemon snaps left?” Tom's deep voice rumbled in her ear.

“Maybe a few. You dug into them fairly good before. I believe you had some thirty—or more.”

“Counting, were you?”

“No . . . just thinking you must not get sweets very often.” She propped herself onto her elbow. “Just where do you eat all the time? At the restaurant?”

He gazed at her, blue eyes hooded and relaxed. The smile on his mouth was a little boyish-looking to her. She reached over and stroked a lock of hair from his brow. “Mostly, I eat at the restaurant. This winter, I've cooked a few things in my room on the heater plate. I never did in the summer, though. It's hot as hell up there, so I'm not about to stoke up a fire.”

Edwina had never really thought about meals and how they were always a ready item in her life. It was a given that Marvel-Anne had her dinner ready at six o'clock. Sometimes Edwina would help. She enjoyed cooking. Other times, she was grateful for Marvel-Anne's reliability, as she could get caught up in gardening, schoolbooks, and lesson planning.

The desire to fix Tom a nice home-cooked meal was an appealing one. From where the want to take care of him had come, she couldn't figure. Her students' mothers would go on about how rewarding it was to do for a man. But their husbands could sometimes be unappreciative, and that would get them started on what nuisances most of their mates could be. Edwina had merely listened to them go on, thinking it somewhat of a relief she wasn't in the same situation.

But with Tom . . . she . . . well, Tom would be a different kind of husband. She was sure. She felt sorry
for him that he didn't have a loving wife and food on his table. But she didn't feel sorry in a way that was pity—it was more as if he were an orphaned little kitty she was compelled to take in and give a bowl of milk and affection. Not that Tom would drink milk. And the loving wife she was picturing was none other than—Heaven help her—herself. Really, such a thought about kittens, a wife, and Tom was rather stupid. Yet, looking upon his face, seeing the lines of laughter at the corners of his eyes, his strong forehead, his brooding mouth and square jaw—the whole of which was not helpless or in any way weak—she couldn't help wanting to do for him. Because he didn't ask for anything, she wanted to give him something. It was the most unexpected feeling, a dizzy lightheadedness . . . and a pang that hit her in her ribs, leaving her shaky and rattled.

She really should plan another social party for the girls . . . focus on one of them finding a beau instead of mulling over the empty possibilities of having one for herself. She could do something in conjunction with the New Year's Eve ball. She'd have to ask Mrs. Brooks if any large groups had reservations. Or she could ask Tom right now and get an answer, only she didn't want him knowing what she was up to. He might try to talk her out of it.

Since anything having to do with cooking Tom a meal or . . . performing any other kind of domestic duty . . . was purely fantasy, the least she could say was, “I'll get you the cookies.”

Reaching behind her, she grabbed the box and handed them to him. Tom put his arm over his head and fumbled for a short pile of newspapers she'd seen stacked on the hearth bricks earlier. She'd assumed they had been left by the management as kindling. Not so. Tom opened the
Montana Herald.

“You ever read the funny papers, Ed?”

“Good heavens, no.”

Tom readjusted his position to lie on his side, the top of the bedspread sliding down to his waist. The newspaper
crinkled as he opened it, then he neatly folded the pages so the funnies were compressed into a rectangle. He flipped the cracker box lid up, stuck his hand inside, and lifted a lemon snap to her. “Have one.”

She took it, then tucked the counterpane beneath her arms and reclined on her side. The bearskin felt deliciously sensual against her naked skin. She'd never thought she'd ever lie on one, much less in the nude. She almost giggled, but she could see Tom's expression had turned expectant as he waited for her to settle in. She did so, snuggling in and nibbling on her cookie.

“ ‘Katzenjammer Kids,' ” he said and pointed to the strip of three boxes. “Listen to this: ‘It would be a shame to give dear teacher all this for her birthday.' ”

She tilted her head, trying to follow along with him upside down. He moved on. She didn't pay close attention to the next box and she lost him. “ ‘ . . . could stand their digestion.' ”

Tom's laugh was rich. “That's funny.”

“Hmm. Yes.” Though she didn't find humor in what little she'd heard.

He continued. “ ‘Here comes Paddy . . .' ” She watched how his mouth moved when he read and smiled at the same time. His lips were firm and wide; the edges of his teeth where white. At his jaw, a muscle flicked, giving him a dimple she'd never noticed before. “ ‘ . . . Hello dar, fellers.' ”

He gazed eagerly at her for a reaction, but she had to disappoint him. “Sorry,” she murmured. “I still think it's scatterbrained and silly.”
About as silly as a zebra's behind for a clock.
But, of course, she didn't make that comparison aloud.

A scowl overtook his features. “You're not getting it. See, Paddy, he's this kid—they're all kids—German immigrants. That's how come they talk the way they do. They have these accents and . . .” Again, she paid more attention to his lips than the words coming out of them. If she could have those lips anytime she wanted, she would be in Heaven. Blissfully. Eternally.

Unbidden, a smile crept over her mouth. It caused Tom to stop his narration and quit pointing at the pictures in the paper, frame by frame. “Is it funny now?”

“I'm chuckling with wild enthusiasm,” she retorted, trying to force a laugh in her tone. Then she added a few ha-ha's for good measure.

Tom grabbed the paper and hurled it aside, then scooped her into his arms so that she lay on top of him. Her unbound hair fanned over both their shoulders in a cascade of firelit brown. The press of their bodies together got Edwina's full attention and brought to life waves of tingling across her skin.

In a voice thick with warning—and she sensed, seduction—Tom said, “You aren't laughing at the funnies. You're laughing at me.”

“Not I. No, never. I wouldn't do that to you—certainly not. ‘Katzenjammer Kids'—funny stuff. Yes, I love them.” Keeping her giggle at bay wasn't so easy. It filtered through every sentence until at the end, she laughed thoroughly in earnest.

He grinned as he declared, “You're a liar.”

“Absolutely . . . yes. What are you going to do about it?”

His eyes darkened, and he cupped the back of her head to bring it down for a kiss. He smothered her with a mastery that brought her to a fiery arousal within a single instant. The taste of lemon snap cookies melted against her lips and was sweet as her tongue entered his mouth. Her hips moved over his, wiggling immodestly as he slipped inside her.

Breaking the kiss, she braced both hands on either side of him. His hands came up to fondle her breasts, teasing the nipples and coaxing a moan from her. She wanted to move, but she refused to let the moment go by quickly. She wanted this to last all night. It felt too good to end.

Slowly, he began the rhythm of sex and her unraveling. She'd known he had that affect on her since that
day in the lawyer's office. One gaze from him and she was undone. But she had him now and he could unwind her as long as he wanted until tomorrow.

She mumbled in a low and barely coherent voice, “Go slow . . .”

“I can go slow or fast. If you want slow, I'll give you slow.” His smile reached his eyes. She saw confidence. To put that confidence to the test, she met his tempo with one of her own, a leisurely wiggle in her hips that made him swear and brought a mist of sweat to his brow.

“What are you trying to do? You said slow. If you move like that, it's not going to be slow.”

Leaning forward so her breasts grazed against his chest, she purred, “But you said you could do slow. You're the dominant male. What you say is law.”

His eyes snapped with self-control. “One times one is one. One times two is two—”

“What are you doing?”

“Distraction,” he said through a half growl. “Multiplication. One times three is three. . . .”

Brushing a kiss along the side of his neck, she whispered, “You think you're so smart.”

“Damn right.” He kissed her ear, causing her to shiver. “I know my nines now, too. . . . Three times one is three. . . .”

His voice faded, and she let the pleasure ride through her body. She thought he'd reached his sixes . . . but she couldn't be certain. All she could focus on was the delightful spiral filling her with every move.

Edwina began to break down when he started on sevens, and she surrendered, pleading for him to stop his eights tables. He went through half of them, then his voice trailed. She never heard the promised nines. And, frankly, she didn't care. Tom drew her into a complete and shuddering ecstasy that left them both shattered.

As she collapsed onto his chest, her spent breath mingling with his, she smiled to herself and wondered if he'd ever manage to get to division.

16

My Dear Miss Huntington:

I received your reply and have to regretfully respect your decision to remain in Montana. Let me please say that if you should ever desire to come to our fair city, you would he quite welcome. If I cannot accommodate you, I have connections with other women in business who would be enthusiastic about interviewing you. You have my card listing my address, and I can also be reached by telephone now! Ring the operator. A modern woman I am!

Yours,

Madame Janette DeVille

House of DeVille Bridal Salon

E
dwina had read the letter twice. She set the parchment in her lap and stared across the parlor in thought.

The odds of finding a position in Denver were good. Probably better than good. She should have been elated, thrilled beyond words. But she was not. The letter meant freedom. Escape. And suddenly, escaping Harmony didn't seem so critical anymore.

With this letter, she had a way out. She hadn't thought
such a means would come so quickly . . . or so easily. When she'd first told Madame DeVille she'd been unavailable, Edwina had assumed that was the end of things. For a while, anyway—until she got her affairs in order. And afterward, she would be free to resume her search for bookkeeping opportunities, to make her mark using the education she'd fought her mother so valiantly for.