Strangers in the Night (16 page)

He didn't say anything, for which she was grateful. Innate caution told her to slow down, while instinct screamed at her, urging her to mate with him; it was fated, anyway, so why wait?
What would waiting accomplish? The outcome was the same, no matter the timetable. Torn between the two, she hesitated, not quite willing yet to take such a large step no matter what the fates said.

“This is scary,” she muttered against his throat.

“No joke.” He buried his face against her hair. “This must be what it feels like to get hit by that famous ton of bricks.”

The knowledge that he was as rattled as she wasn't very reassuring, because she would have liked for one of them to be in control.

“We don't know each other.” Neither did she know with whom she was arguing, him or herself. All she knew was that, for one of the few times in her life, she wasn't certain of herself. She didn't like the feeling. One of the foundation bricks of her life, her very self, was her knowledge of herself and other people;
not
to know was if that foundation was being shaken.

“We'll work on that.” His lips brushed her temple. “We don't have to rush into anything.”

But when he
did
know her, would he still want her? She worried at that, feeling, not for the first time, the weight of her differentness. She came
with so much excess baggage that a lot of men would think she was more trouble than she was worth.

That thought gave her the strength to push gently at his shoulders. He released her immediately, stepping back. Lilah took a deep breath and pushed her hair out of her face, trying not to look at him, but the clear, dark red of passion emanating from him was almost impossible to ignore. “I'd better get those biscuits in the oven,” she said, stepping around him. “Just sit down out of my way and I'll have supper ready in a jiffy.”

“I'll stand, thank you,” he said wryly.

She couldn't help it; she had to look, meeting his rueful blue gaze in perfect understanding. The dark red of his aura was still glowing hot and clear, especially in the groin area, though more blue was beginning to show through in the aura around his head.

But he did move out of her way, leaning against the wall by the door. She put the biscuits into the oven and opened a big can of beef stew, dumping the contents into a pot and placing that on top of the stove. The simple meal would have to be enough, because she wasn't about to go out into
the storm to chase down a chicken for supper. The biscuits could cool, and the beef stew could simmer until he got hungry again.

He was watching her. She felt his gaze, his utter male focus on her. Being female wasn't something to which she gave a great deal of thought, but under that intent study she was suddenly, acutely aware of her body, of the way her breasts lifted with each breath, of the folds between her legs where he would enter. She didn't have to look down to know her nipples were tightly beaded, or at the front of his pants to know his erection hadn't yet subsided.

His unabashed arousal did more to turn her on than any sweet nothing he could have whispered. Something had to be done to lessen the sensual tension, or she would shortly find herself on her back. She cleared her throat, mentally searching for a neutral topic.

“How did a nice Texas boy end up in Alabama?” She already knew; Jo had told her. But it was the only thing she could think of, and at least the question would get him to talking.

“My mother was from Dothan.”

No further explanation followed. Deciding he
needed more prodding, Lilah said, “Why did she move to Texas?”

“She met my dad. He was from west Texas. Mom and a couple of friends from college were driving to California after graduation, and they had car trouble. My dad was a deputy then, and he stopped to help them. Mom never did get to California.”

That was better; he was talking. She breathed an inner sigh of relief. “Why did she come back to Alabama, then?”

“Dad died a few years ago.” He settled his shoulders more comfortably against the wall. “West Texas isn't for everyone; it can be hot as hell, and pretty damn empty. She never complained while Dad was alive, but after he died, the loneliness got to her. She wanted to move back to Alabama, close to her sister and her friends from college.”

“So you came with her?”

“She's my mother,” he said simply. “I can be in law enforcement here as easily as I could in Texas. Mom and I don't live together, haven't since I was eighteen and went away to college, but she knows I'm nearby if she needs anything.”

“It didn't bother you at all to leave Texas?” She
couldn't imagine such a thing. She loved her home, knew it as intimately as she knew herself. She loved the scent of the river in the early mornings, the way it turned gold when the dawn light struck it, she loved the dramatic weather that produced violent thunderstorms and torrents of rain, the hot, humid days when even the birds seemed lethargic, and the gray winter days when a fire in the fireplace and a cup of hot soup were the best she could ask of life.

He shrugged. “Home is family, not a place. I've got some aunts and uncles in Texas, a whole herd of cousins, but no one as close to me as Mom. I can always visit Texas if I feel the need.”

He loved his mother, and was unabashed about it. Lilah swallowed, hard. Her own mother had died when she was five, but she cherished the few memories she had of the woman who had been the center of life in the isolated little house.

“What about you?” he asked. “Are you from here originally?”

“I was born in this house. I've lived here all my life.”

He gave her a quizzical look, and she knew what he was thinking. Most babies were born in a
hospital, and had been for the last fifty years. She was obviously younger than that, but too old to have been part of the birth-at-home fashion that was making a comeback in some sections.

“Didn't your daddy have time to get her to the hospital?”

“She didn't want a hospital.” Was now the time to explain that her mother had been a folk healer, like her? That she too had seen the bursts of color that surrounded people, and taught her daughter what they meant, how to read them? That she had known everything would be all right, and thus hadn't seen any purpose in spending their hard-earned money on a hospital and doctor she didn't need?

“That was one tough lady,” he said, shaking his head. A small smile curved his mouth. “I delivered a baby when I was a rookie. Scared the hell out of me, and the mother wasn't too happy, either. But we got through it, and they were both okay.” The smile turned into a grin. “My bedside manner must have been a tad off, though; she
didn't
name the baby after me. As I recall, her exact words were: ‘No offense, but I never want to see you again for the rest of my life.' ”

Lilah threw back her head on a gusty laugh. She could just see a young, inexperienced rookie deputy, sweating and panicky, delivering a baby. “What happened? Did the baby come early, or just fast?”

“Neither. West Texas does get snow, and that was one of the times. The roads were in really bad shape. She and her husband were on the way to the hospital, but their car slid off the road into a drift not a mile from their house, so they walked back home and called for help. I was in the area, and I had a four-wheel drive, but by the time I got to their house the weather was even worse, so bad I wouldn't risk the drive.” He rubbed his ear. “She cussed me, called me every name I'd ever heard before, and a few that I hadn't. She wanted something for the pain, and I was the one keeping her from getting it, so she made sure I suffered right along with her.”

His grin invited her to laugh at the image his words conjured. Lilah snickered as she checked on the biscuits. “What about her husband?”

“Useless. Every time he came around he got an even worse cussing than I did, so he stayed out of sight. I'm telling you, that was one unhappy lady.”

“How long did her labor last?”

“Nineteen hours and twenty-four minutes,” he promptly replied. “The longest nineteen hours and twenty-four minutes in the history of the world, according to her. She swore she'd been in labor at least three days.”

Under the amusement in his tone was a thread of … joy. She tilted her head, wondering if she read him correctly. “You liked it.” The words weren't quite a question.

He laughed. “Yeah, I did. It was exciting, and funny, and amazing as hell. I've seen puppies and calves and foals being born, but I've never felt anything like when that baby slid into my hands. By the way, it was a girl. Jackson just didn't seem to suit her.”

His aura was glowing now with more green in the mixture, shot through with joyful yellow. Lilah no longer had to wonder when she would fall in love with him. She did in that moment, something inside her melting, growing hotter. She knew her own aura would be showing pink, and she blushed, even though she knew he couldn't see it.

She felt trembly, and had to sit down. This was momentous. She'd never thought she would love
the way others did, not romantically. She loved many people and many things, but not like this. Always, mixed in with her feelings, was the knowledge that she was set apart from them, a caretaker rather than a partner. Even with Pops she'd been the rock on which he leaned. But Jackson was a strong man, both mentally and physically. He didn't need anyone to take care of him; rather, he did the caring.

If she hadn't been able to see his aura, she would eventually have loved him anyway. But she could see it, and she knew the essence of the man. That, and her own precognitive recognition of him as her mate, destroyed her sense of caution. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and let him do whatever he wanted. Instead she got up and checked the biscuits.

She stood there with the oven door open, letting heat escape, staring blindly at the biscuits. Jackson came up behind her. “Perfect,” he said with approval.

She blinked. The biscuits were a golden brown, perfectly risen. She had a good hand with biscuits, or so Pops had always said. She took a deep breath and, using a dish cloth, took the hot
pan out of the oven and set it on a cooling rack.

“Why does Vargas think you're a witch?”

That brought her to earth with a thud. The change in his tone was subtle, but there: He was the sheriff, and he wanted to know if anyone in his county was practicing witchcraft.

“Several reasons, I suppose.” She turned to face him, her expression cool and unreadable. “I live alone out in the woods, I seldom go into town, I don't socialize. The witch rumor started when I was in fourth grade, I think.”

“Fourth grade, huh?” He leaned against the cabinet, blue gaze sharp on her face. “I guess he'd been watching too many
Bewitched
reruns.”

She lifted one eyebrow and waited.

“So you don't cast spells, or dance naked in the moonlight, or anything like that?”

“I'm not a witch,” she said plainly. “I've never cast a spell, though I might dance naked in the moonlight, if the notion took me.”

“Do tell.” The gaze warmed, and moved slowly down her body. “Call me if you need a dancing partner. ”

“I'll do that.”

He looked up, met her eyes, and as simply as that, there was no longer any need for caution.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, moving closer, stroking one finger up her bare arm.

“No.”

“So the biscuits and beef stew can wait?”

“They can.”

He took the dishcloth and set the pan of stew off the eye. “Will you go to bed with me, then, Lilah Jones?”

“I Will.”

L
ilah lit the lamp in her bedroom and turned it low. The storm and heavy rain made the room as dark as night, lit briefly by the flashes of lightning. Jackson seemed to fill the small room, his shoulders throwing a huge shadow over the wall. His aura, visible even in the low light, pulsated with that deep, clear red again, the color of passion and sensuality.

He began unbuttoning his shirt, and she turned back the bedcovers, neatly folding the quilt and plumping the pillows. Her bed looked small, she thought, though it was a double. It was certainly too small for him. Perhaps she should see
about getting a larger one, though she wasn't certain how long he would use hers. That was the problem with the flashes of precognition; they told her facts, but not circumstances. She knew only that Jackson would be her lover, and her love. She had no idea if he would love her in return, if they would be together forever or only this one time.

“You look nervous.” Despite the sharpness of his desire, which she could plainly see, his voice was quiet. His shirt was unbuttoned but he hadn't yet removed it. Instead he was watching her, his cop's eyes seeing too much.

“I am,” she admitted.

“If you don't want to do this, just say so. No hard feelings—well, except for one place,” he said wryly.