In the Midnight Rain (24 page)

Connie drawled, "Oh, I'm sure he'll be plenty nice. You won't hear her complaining any time soon."

"Connie, not everything is about sex," Alisha said with exasperation. "I'm talking about her getting her heart broken. I already warned him once. And her, too, for that matter."

"Not everything is about sex," Connie agreed, her mouth sober as she looked out the window. "But that's what Blue Reynard is about."

Rosemary met Alisha's gaze, and for the first time, she didn't see a young, slim usurper, but a woman in her own right, with her own plans and views of the world. "I like him," Alisha said quietly. "I just don't think he's much of a catch."

"You're right," Rosemary said, and touched her arm, once, briefly. "But there isn't much you can do to stop a runaway train. And that one's gone clear off the tracks. We just have to wait for the wreck, be there to pick up the pieces."

* * *

Ellie took April for a quick walk to the river, half hoping she'd run into Mrs. Laisser. But the post-noonday sun was hot, almost oppressive. Even the river seemed as if it were running sluggishly, and of course there was no sign of anyone around. Ellie let April snuffle in the undergrowth for a while, and stood slapping mosquitoes and gnats from her sweaty skin as she thought about Binkle. Standing there in Dome's Cafe, talking to the flesh-and-blood man who'd aged from the face in the yearbooks, had been a strange experience. She'd seen, in his dark hair and large eyes and overly full lips, ghostly images of her own features. His hair was cut short enough it was impossible to know if it curled, but the color was definitely black as Ellie's.

April lapped at the river. Ellie leaned on a tree and gazed at the feathery branches of a pine, glistening under the weight of sun and wet air. When she'd originally seen the pictures in the yearbook, she had not been able to imagine her wild mother finding anything remotely appealing about Binkle. And yet, today, in his wealth and ease of bearing, in his seemingly genuine interest in people, Ellie had been surprised to find herself reconsidering. If he'd had half that self-assurance as a youth, he had probably been quite appealing and persuasive indeed.

And the truth was, her pool of possible fathers was pretty small so far. She might be able to find out more tonight. It was entirely possible that Diane had fallen in love with someone who had been camera shy, or had been working that day. Any number of things.

Still, Binkle was a strong possibility, and she felt an odd mix of hope and trepidation.

"Get to work, Connor," she said aloud. And didn't move. Looking over her shoulder, she could just glimpse the roof of the big house, and thought of Blue with flour scattered over his forearms as he battered chicken pieces for the dinner tonight.

Just before he dropped her off, he'd taken her hand. "Do me a favor," he'd said in that deep, slow voice.

"What?"

"Don't go into that house and start thinking about me or us or anything else, all right?" His mouth was sober. "Just let it all be."

Ellie had nodded, but how did a woman put such a thing out of her head? How could anyone put Blue Reynard on full-stun out of her head? Coming across the cab, his mouth parted just enough that she could see the edges of his front teeth and the pinkness of tongue, and then that tongue was in her mouth and his hair touched her face and his finger dug into her scalp—and any reason she might have had to not kiss him just disappeared. Poof.

For three days, her nerves had been prickling at the slightest provocation—a drop of water on a wrist, or the brush of grass over the sole of her foot. Her dreams had been taut and steamy, full of images of limbs and mouths tangled.

Stop it.

The heaviness of the heat finally drove her to whistle for April, and they lazily made their way back up the track. It was almost oppressively quiet. No birds moved in the trees or called out greetings. Nothing rustled the leaves. Even the insects were still.

It took Ellie back to her childhood, to summer days that seemed to stretch for a thousand years ahead of her, long dull still afternoons spent seeking some relief, at the creek or in the deep shadows of a tree. She'd been a terribly solitary child, she thought now, and wondered if Blue had been.

As she rounded the last stand of trees before the cottage, she spied Marcus and Blue standing by the big greenhouse. Her steps slowed. By their gestures, they were discussing some problem, and Marcus took a sheet of paper Blue gave him, pulled his keys out of his pocket, and waved lazily. Blue picked up a box and carried it into the big greenhouse.

Ellie thought of the cool, soft air inside that long structure, thought of the shadows and the smell, and her feet moved of their own accord away from the stuffy cabin toward the greenhouse. Toward Blue.

As she neared the door, she heard music. She paused at the door, listening. Pachelbel's Kanon—which had to be one of the loveliest, if most overplayed, pieces of music in all of time. If she'd had any doubt about entering, those notes erased it. She opened the door and stepped over the threshold.

Inside, the sound engulfed her, poignant and sad, and so fitting to the Taj Mahal aspects of this place. She closed the door behind her and walked in a few steps, but when she didn't immediately see Blue, she stopped to absorb everything. The music swelling up, the dazzlement of pink vines overhead and the relief of the coolness within after the heat outside, and the smell of earth and blossoms in the moistness.

She stepped close to a trail of pink and white orchids of the sort found in nurseries and corsages, and tried to inhale a scent. There was none, but the flowers were beautiful anyway, and she lifted a finger to touch one of them.

Suddenly, from overhead came a soft sound, a hiss she couldn't quite recognize, and then there was water—rain—falling in a gentle mist all around her, cooling her overheated skin, dampening her hair. She lifted her face to it, laughing softly. Had she ever been in such a place?

She moved on the path, ducking under branches and low-lying trees, following the graveled path past small pools of coppery water and birds fluttering their wings in the shower, winding by orchids shaped like spiders, and like trumpets, and like strange, unearthly beings. Some were huge, some were tiny, some were beautiful, some were not.

At last she caught sight of a jeans-clad leg through a break in the denseness, and she ducked under a vine, her mouth open to speak her pleasure. In that moment, the Kanon finished, and the world was eerily silent for the space of five or six breaths. Ellie found herself poised, feeling the exact angle of her elbows and knees as she moved beneath the vine, aware of her heartbeat in her ears and the soft sound of air in her nostrils.

Bach came on the speakers, a joyous and yet mournful piece, the best of the violin concertos, at once a celebration and a moan—the mix of joy and sorrow found in every moment of every life. She stood up, tossing loose hair from her face, and saw him.

She halted, silent. For Blue stood in a sort of clearing against a backdrop of riotous orchids, his arms outstretched, his head thrown back, the shower falling silvery over his face and neck and arms, wetting his shirt and his jeans and his hair. On his face was an expression that could have been deepest sorrow or deepest joy. Or maybe reverence. It was even possible to imagine he was weeping, moved to joy by the music, as she was.

And in that instant, she knew. She knew. There was no other man on earth like him. No one with exactly this combination of joy and passion and sorrow, this mix of lost and beautiful, this heart of music and flowers.

Think, she told herself. Think what it will be like when he starts pulling away, when you find out you can't save him from himself. When you have to get in the car and drive away and go back to your old life.

But it was like trying to imagine the last day of camp on the first day. You knew it was coming, but it was a long way off, and in between was so much to anticipate that it was impossible to even consider skipping it. He was more beautiful than anything she'd ever seen, standing there amid his flowers.

As she stood there, stricken, she must have made some small noise, for he turned, and lowered his arms, and his chin. His face was wet, all those planes taking the light. He didn't smile, only looked at her soberly, his eyelashes spiky.

Then he simply reached down, crossed his arms and took the hem of his shirt in his hands, drawing it off in one smooth motion. He dropped the tangle of fabric on the floor and held out an arm to her. Her gaze caught on the line of his lean waist, then on a rib, and—

Naked. She just wanted to be naked with him. Here. Her feet moved, and she reached for the hem of her own wet T-shirt, and drew it off, and dropped it. The rain wet her face and her breasts and she felt it collecting, then dripping from her hair to her shoulders.

He took a step and captured her, his arms slid around her, wet skin skidding, sliding, and Ellie felt a buzz beneath her skin as she raised her face to look at him, at Blue, before he took her chin in his hand and kissed her roughly, with no elegance, only a thick thrusting claim, and she opened to it, just as inelegant, letting him in, following him back, sucking hard at his mouth. He made a noise and pulled her hard against him, and they rubbed together instinctively.

She put her hands around the edge of the waistband of his jeans, all the way around, feeling the elastic of his underwear, and for some reason she couldn't name, it sent a wildness through her, that single detail. She wanted to rip the offending fabric from him, touch all of him with all of her, and she bit at his mouth, and put her hands around his buttocks. His hands moved, too, moved on her back, down her sides, and his mouth—oh, his mouth! He kissed and sucked and slid and devoured, every infinitesimal movement an expression of purest need.

Blue wanted
her.

It sent a kind of violence quaking through her, and she broke away from his kiss to reach between them, water streaming down her face, and unbuttoned his jeans. He sucked in his belly to make it easier, his hands moving down her shoulders, her back, until he found the clasp of her bra and unfastened it. Ellie straightened her arms and he skimmed down, and it fell between them. She kicked it away and pulled his hands up to her breasts. The flesh of his palms was slightly rough, but his mouth, when he knelt to put it on her nipples, was silky and hot, and she closed her eyes with a sharp exhalation, tipping her head back to the shower falling over them. Her hands slid on his muscled shoulders, slid to his neck, into his hair.

He raised his head, putting his hands on her shoulders. Ellie looked down, and managed the unfastening, and started to push away the fabric, but the feeling of his eyes on her face, and his silence, unnerved her for a moment. She halted, and raised her eyes, thinking suddenly that he might not want to make love in here, that it was, after all, his Taj Mahal. "Would you rather go to the cabin?" she said.

A soft laugh. "No." His thumbs moved on her neck, and his eyes touched her lips, her hair. "I just want to look at you." His hands slid downward, took her breasts in his palms. He bent his head to kiss her collarbone, and his tongue lapped the water beaded there.

Of course he would not rush. He never rushed. And he didn't now. He took his time exploring, tasting the round of her shoulder, the breadth of her ribs, the weight of her breasts. Ellie closed her eyes and put her hands in his damp hair and let the need build.

"You're made like a tiny little doll," he said, and fell to his knees so he could kiss her belly. She bent slightly over him, clasping his head to her, and touched his beautiful shoulders, and his hair.

He groaned suddenly, his hands still and tight on her thighs. His head fell, damp, against her belly.

Dazed, she said, "What is it?"

"Shit." He fell into a sitting position and took her with him, pulling her hard into his lap so that she straddled him and their upper bodies slid close and held. Ellie noticed the shower had stopped. "I'm just wondering how I got so lucky and so unlucky all at once."

"Unlucky?" She blinked.

He sighed. "I don't have a condom."

She drooped against him. "Damn." With a sense of embarrassment, she hid her face against his shoulder. "Well, I feel dumb."

"Dumb?" He shook his head. "Oh, Ellie, please don't. I've been dying to make love to you. Don't change your mind now." He bent, suddenly, and kissed her neck, and opened his mouth on the place, just below her ear, that made her crazy. "Please," he said in a rough voice, "don't change your mind. I want you so bad." His hands tightened. "Tonight, okay? I have a whole seduction planned. Wine and music and candles." He lifted his head, and the blue of his eyes was extravagant, intense, irresistible. "Please."

She forgot embarrassment, forgot that she was a skinny, unbeautiful woman, forgot that he was dangerous and lost, and let the yearning hold sway. Keeping her eyes open, she kissed him.

"Tonight," she agreed. His chest hair, crisp and soft at once, brushed her breasts and she pressed her hips against his arousal. "But I can't tell you how disappointed I am. If anyone finds out, your reputation as a dog is going to be seriously damaged. What kind of Lothario doesn't have a condom at the ready at any moment?"

He laughed softly, and put his hands on her breasts, lightly stroking. "I promise I'll make it up to you."

Reluctantly, Blue let her go, and although he kept meaning to turn away to let her manage the awkwardness of putting herself back together in some privacy, he couldn't seem to keep his eyes off her. She moved without self-consciousness, standing up, bending over to pick up the sodden mess of her little bitty bra. She took one look at it, shook her head, and stuffed it into the pocket of her shorts, then walked the few steps to the shirt and bent to pick it up. One soft white moon of breast swayed forward with the action, and he wanted to kiss it, touch it. He touched himself, pressed hard to ease the buttons closed on his jeans. And still he watched her.

Her back was curved and smooth, her skin as flawless and beautiful as the orchid petals all around them, her shoulders narrow, the collarbone prominent but not bony, which maybe he'd expected. She raised her arms over her head to put the shirt back on, and all that wet flesh glistened in the low light.