Luke (11 page)

Sweet, smooth, warm, his kiss was so right it was like a well-remembered dream. The pleasure of it seeped through her against her will, destroying her defenses with the inexorable effect of a strong drug. Time and place, music and reason, drifted away to leave only the moment and the man. She wanted to be angry, wanted to push free. Warring against that impulse was the instinct to melt against him, merge with him. The conflict was so disturbing that she made a half-stifled sound of distress.

Luke released her and eased away. She steadied herself, and was glad to discover that only seconds had elapsed rather than the eons it had seemed. Catching at the remnants of her composure, she inquired, “Was that supposed to prove something?”

“Susceptibility,” he answered without expression, “though whether yours or mine, I'm not sure.”

That was some consolation. It also helped that he didn't appear to realize how much he had disturbed her. “Since it didn't work, there should be no need to repeat it.”

“Oh, I wouldn't say that.”

In sharp alarm, she asked, “What do you mean?”

“It didn't change how I feel. That being so, I have only one thing to say by way of warning.”

She shouldn't ask, didn't want to know, but couldn't seem to prevent the question from springing to her lips. “And that is?”

His smile was rich and easy, a slow curving of his lips that rose to gleam in his eyes. In quiet promise, he said, “Resist me if you can.”

M
ulberry Point sat silent and closed in upon itself in the slanting rays of early morning sunlight when Luke arrived the next morning. The grass along the drive was wet with dew, and so were the edges of the gray slate shingles that topped the massive old house. He should probably wait until the sun dried things off since the moss that accumulated on the shady sides of these old roofs could be as slippery as the path to hell when damp. But April would be up by then. She'd probably order him off the place before he could get his extension ladder off the truck. Once he was actually on the rooftop, however, getting rid of him would be a whole lot harder.

He discovered a big leak over the stairs without much trouble. Tearing the broken shingles off was not exactly a quiet operation, however. He had only pried a couple loose and let them slide down and over the edge to the ground when he heard a hail from below. With a rueful shake of his head, he rose from his haunches and gave a shout in answer.

April appeared a second later, backing up with a hand shading her eyes as she sought his location. She wore a soft-looking nightgown and robe in old-fashioned white cotton. The morning sun outlined
her body as a hazy shadow surrounded by a golden nimbus, while her hair gleamed like polished gold. From his high perch, she looked like a fallen angel. Too bad she didn't sound like one.

“What do you think you're doing?” she demanded. “I told you I didn't need help. Anyway, you'll break your stupid neck crawling around up there by yourself!”

“It's my neck.” He was too enthralled by the expression of concern for more.

“Well, it's my insurance company that will have to pay the bills. Come down now!”

Luke's brief euphoria evaporated. With a shake of his head, he said, “I might as well finish the job as long as I'm up here.”

She stared up at him a long moment without answering, her gaze intent as it moved over him. He let her look, standing loose-limbed and at ease. At the same time, he felt the back of his neck grow hot as he wondered what was going through her head. He was used to a certain amount of female attention but not this kind of searching appraisal, as if she meant to memorize every detail, from his sweat-stained cap to his faded jeans.

Finally, she said, “It isn't going to work, you know. I refuse to feel obligated over something I didn't ask you to do.”

Irritation moved over him. “I'm not doing this because I expect anything in return. Old houses appeal to me, okay? They're like fine old ladies. Take care of them, keep them pampered and protected, and they do you proud. Neglect them and they turn into worn-out messes.”

“Don't tell me you don't have more than enough to do at Chemin-a-Haut because I won't believe it. But if you want to waste your time, fine. I have better things to do than stand here and argue with you.”

She swung away in a swirl of white and marched out of his sight beneath the overhang of the house. A second later, however, she reappeared. With a hand at the neck of her nightgown, she called up at him, “You haven't seen anything of Midnight, have you?”

“That cat of yours? Nope.”

“You don't…see anything that looks like it could be him?”

She was asking if he could spot a furry black body better from his high vantage point. Luke gave the front yard a quick once-over, then turned in a slow circle to scan the surrounding area. Facing her again, he said, “Not a sign of him.”

She let out the breath she'd been holding. “It was…just a thought.” She hesitated, then added, “Thanks.”

“No problem,” he said with a small salute.

She met his gaze for a moment longer, then put her head down and made for the house again. The front door slammed behind her.

Luke stood where he was, thinking about the lost, almost defenseless look that he'd glimpsed on her face. It reminded him of the night before in that second after he'd kissed her. She'd been so warm and pliant in his arms for a single, mind-blowing second. The feel and taste of her had gone to his head like 150 proof white lightning from some
swamp rat's private still. That kind of brew went down smooth and easy, but had a punch like being whaled by the tail of a bull alligator. He hadn't been ready for it and nor, he thought, had April. It was strong medicine; a little went a long way and large doses could be lethal. They were going to have to come to grips with the phenomenon but today was not, apparently, the day. Luke gave a quick, hard shake of his head, then went back to work.

Chemin-a-Haut and Mulberry Point were both from the same general era of building so had similar roof slates. Luke happened to have a supply on hand, bought from a company that stockpiled shingles, lumber, bricks and other architectural pieces saved when old buildings were torn down. He laid these in place, fitting the smooth, gray slates carefully to the adjoining run. It was an easy task for a fine summer morning, or it was when you knew what you were doing. He enjoyed the feel of the sun between his shoulder blades, even if it did make his healing burns itch. The smoothness of the old slates under his hands was also a pleasure, as was the knowledge that what he was doing would keep the interior of the fine old place safe and dry for maybe another hundred years. It was just possible his kids or grandkids would be the ones squatting on this roof one day, taking note of his handiwork and adding their own to it. The thought made him feel good in a way that he couldn't explain if his life depended on it, but kept him at the job all the same.

To do something for April that she couldn't do for herself also pleased him. If there was an obligation between them, it was on his side. He'd been
in the wrong all those years ago and knew it well. On the other hand, there was more than one way to get to a woman and he wasn't above using a display of masculine competence in a good cause.

She felt something for him, he was sure. It might be no more than the kind of hot craving they'd shared on a few, too few, summer nights years ago, but he'd settle for that. He'd settle for whatever she had to give him; he wasn't greedy. To make her recognize that something still existed between them had become an obsession, however, one he had to do something about before it drove him nuts. More than that, he needed to regain the trust she'd once given him, to see himself reflected whole and clean, a decent human being, in her eyes.

The tapping of his hammer made a counterpoint to Luke thoughts. When he came to the end of a row, he looked up and discovered that the morning was gone and the job done. He stood and stretched the kinks out of his muscles, then climbed down from the roof. He was hungry enough to eat a small elephant since breakfast had been only coffee and a piece of French bread spread with butter. It didn't look as if April was going to offer to feed him, however, so he'd do without. Going in search of his caulking gun, he started to work on the loose windowpanes that he'd noticed last time he was here.

Sun glare and pulled curtains prevented him from seeing into the house at most of the windows, not that he particularly tried. He grew used to ignoring the rooms beyond the glass until he reached the back of the house. As he set his ladder in place, he noticed a shadowy movement inside. He was out
side April's office, he thought, for he could make out the white screen of her computer monitor, the shapes of a desk and other equipment, and the stacked shelves of bookcases. The window itself was closed because of air-conditioning, but he pushed it open with a quick movement, then swung a leg over the wide sill and straddled it for a seat.

“About time you stopped to eat, isn't it?” he asked. “Or are you dieting?”

“Hmm?” Her expression was distracted, almost unfocused, as she stared at her computer. She didn't move from her slouched position with her elbows draped over the arms of her chair and her feet propped on some kind of shelf under her desk.

“I said—”

“I heard you,” she interrupted, turning her head abruptly in his direction. “I'm not hungry.”

“The creative mind needs sustenance,” he said, watching her with fascination. “You should eat something.”

She turned her gaze back to the lines on her screen and typed a few words. After a moment, she made a vague gesture in the direction of the door. “There's cheese and peanut butter in the kitchen. Maybe some ham. Make yourself something if you want it.”

“I was talking about you.”

“I'll get something in a minute.” She started typing again, frowning mightily at whatever she was putting down.

Luke watched her a few more seconds, then climbed into the room and padded across the floor. He was tempted to pause and read over her shoulder
as he crossed behind her, but figured he'd better not push his luck. He was almost to the hall door, when something he'd seen above her computer desk jarred his attention. He glanced back again.

It was his own face, or rather a collage of pictures of himself. They were pinned to a cork bulletin board, some of them fairly old, some taken a few years back, but several of more recent vintage. Most were snapshots, group pictures with friends and family, but a few were newspaper clippings. The largest shot, however, was a copy of a portrait he'd let Granny May talk him into doing for her last birthday.

April glanced toward him once more, then followed his line of sight. Her blank look grew more stolid as she asked, “What?”

“Nothing.” He blinked as he tried to marshal his stunned thoughts. “Just—nothing.”

She went back to her work without another word. He turned around and headed into the hall, frowning as he went.

April's refrigerator was fully stocked with easy-to-prepare food, an indication of how she sustained life and limb while she was working. She needed a keeper, he thought, she really did. He slathered mayonnaise on bread, cut thick slices of cheese and wolfed it down with a glass of milk. With his appetite temporarily appeased, he made two more sandwiches and set them on separate paper plates, poured drinks, then headed back toward the office with his load.

April actually smiled at him when he set the food on her desk. She even pushed away from her com
puter. Reaching for her sandwich, she bit into it as if she were starved.

“Thought you weren't hungry,” he commented as he took a seat on a desk corner with his own plate on his knee.

“The sight of food changed my mind.”

Her lashes concealed her gaze as she answered, but Luke was satisfied. They ate in silence for a few minutes. Finally, he said, “So, what's with using me for a pinup?”

“Don't flatter yourself. You're just a face and a body I'm using as a stand-in for my hero.”

Her answer was so prompt that it was plain she'd been waiting for him to ask. “What do you mean, a stand-in?”

“It helps to have a definite face to describe or use for different expressions, different emotions.”

“Why mine?”

She shrugged, though her concentration was still on her sandwich. “Your admirers at the conference elected you. Who am I to fight majority opinion?”

“So, what if your hero was blond?” He didn't really care, but was interested in what she'd say.

“It wouldn't take much imagination to turn you into a blond hunk.”

“Yeah? But you must have to think about your hero differently no matter what his coloring might be, right?”

The glance she gave him was jaundiced, as if she saw clearly what he was getting at, but she made no comment.

“I mean, these heroes of yours can't be much like
me—or as you think I am—or they wouldn't be too heroic. You must have quite an imagination.”

“You've no idea,” she said in dry agreement.

He studied her an instant, but decided to let that one alone. With a slow grin, he asked, “So, where does this imagination take you when you do the love scenes?”

Hot color flooded into her face. “I might have known you'd zero in on that subject. I'll have you know romances are about more than sex. They're about courage and commitment and making relationships work. They're—”

“Hold on!” he protested. “I'm not putting down what you do, just curious about how you go about it. Mainly, I was wondering how involved you are with the process.”

“I can't explain it, and even if I could I doubt you'd ever understand. Anyway, it's none of your business.”

“Even if I'm the guy in these fantasies?”

“You aren't. At least…”

“I am and I'm not, that it?”

“Exactly,” she said, her golden gaze even. “As I told you, you're just a face. The actual hero is only a figment of my imagination.”

“Nobody real, I get it.” It was a disappointment, but he'd live. As another thought came to him, he narrowed his eyes. “But maybe he's the way you'd like a man to be?”

“Sure, why not? We all have our dreams.”

Something in her voice, or maybe in her eyes, sent a small ache through his chest. It was disturbing, which in turn reminded him that he had other
things to do besides repairs for a woman who didn't appreciate his services. He tossed back the last of his milk and set the glass and his plate aside. As he got to his feet, he said, “Time to move on. I'll check the French door locks on my way out.”

“You don't have to—”

“Give it a rest, April,” he said, cutting her off with a straight look before he got to his feet and headed toward the hall. At the door, he turned back.

“Like being the stand-in for your hero, it doesn't mean a damn thing.”

It took longer to shift the contents of the toolbox in his Jeep in order to find antique replacement screws from his pack-rat assortment than it did to fix April's loose locks. While he was at it, he caulked around the French door units upstairs and installed a few lengths of weather stripping. He was putting up his tools and picking up bits and pieces of trash from the floor of the upper balcony when he heard a noise like a rusty hinge squeaking.