Tides of Love (Seaswept Seduction Series) (28 page)

As a clock counted off time, his eyes lightened, his fists unfurled, and his splendid arousal withered. Her hold over him, whatever that constituted, diminished with each annoying tick. "Elle"—he tapped the bridge of his nose, threw a quick glance at the spectacles dangling from her fingers—"I think we should stay far, far away from each other."

The edges of her temper crisped and curled. "That's what you came up with? Stay away from each other?"

A spark of fury lit his gaze. "What the hell do you want me to do? To say? I can't answer every question, find a solution for every problem. That blessed professor nonsense is a myth. I thought you understood better than anyone." He took a fast step forward. "Understand
this.
I want you. I sit awake, night after night, crammed in a stiff leather chair, lust eating me alive, picturing you twisting beneath me, or God help me, beneath another—"

With an angry oath, he swept his hand across the marble-topped bureau. The troublesome shelf clock struck the floor, a deafening shatter. Shards of glass glittered amidst the raindrops blowing in the window. "Forget him and let this... situation between us die."

"Him?
" She pointed to the rumpled bed. "You believe this is still some sort of youthful obsession?"

Over his shoulder, his tormented gaze met hers, his chin lowering in what she had to assume was a positive reply.

"Maybe you're right. Maybe everything I feel
is
for that boy. The one who walked me to the doctor and held my hand while he set the splint. The one who helped me speak his language and protected me until I could do it well enough to avoid getting knocked around in the schoolyard. Maybe I'm yearning for
him.
Because I see his face when I look into
yours. A figment of my foolish, sentimental imagination. Exactly what you expect from me, Professor? Fickle, flighty Elle Beaumont."

Noah flinched and jammed his hands in his pockets, as if the words he had practically begged her to utter disturbed him. "No, no, that's not what I expect from you at all. It's just, this attraction between us can't work. Some things don't make sense if you take a moment to examine them.
We
don't make sense. We're too different, you and I. And, the lure, the excitement, well, passion and—and love, love which comes from deep inside, are different beasts. Love is, love makes intimacy special. Inversely, lust roars around in your chest like a bear, clawing and slashing its way out. I guess I don't know... honestly, I don't know if one has much to do with the other."

Oh, how she wanted to tell Noah Garrett where he could stick his bungling rationale. Instead, she prolonged her departure by slipping his spectacles on her face. The room melted into ribbons of black and white. Seeing the world through his eyes deepened the ache in her chest. She swallowed hard and forced herself to say, "Then, what just happened between us was simply a spontaneous reaction to a—what would a scientist call it—some kind of primitive stimulus?"

He dropped to his haunches and began to place shards of glass in his cupped palm, his firm bottom resting two inches above the floor. "All I'm telling you, dammit, simply
asking
you, is to think. Use your clever little mind. Be sensible for once. You're too intelligent not to understand what I'm saying. We're oil and water, Elle, we don't mix."

Her heart shattered like the clock at his feet. "When have you ever known
me
to act sensibly, Professor?"

"Exactly what scares me," he said, the words hard-edged and determined.

Gravely determined.

Of course, she wasn't an impartial judge, but her feelings seemed indisputably genuine, shades darker than those she'd experienced as a child. Yet, as she studied him, she realized his old-and-water theory might be true. He painstakingly selected a piece of glass, then paused to consider before selecting another.

She would have swept them up without regard for anything.

Despondent, she lifted his spectacles from her face and found him watching her, rotating a jagged shard between his fingers. A strange, almost fearful expression shaped his features. Then he averted his gaze, ending any argument she hoped to make.

Dazed and unsure, she dropped his spectacles on the washstand, navigated a pile of research books in the living area, and descended the staircase, head high, posture rigid
.
Pausing at the bottom, she looked over her shoulder.

Noah stood on the landing, hands gripping the railing, a wooden slat biting into his stomach. Water glistened on his clenched jaw.

Tell me,
she pleaded, struggling to decipher the emotions sweeping his face.
Something, anything.

In answer, he wagged his head slowly back and forth.

Noah let her walk away, her aggrieved sigh yanking his stomach to his knees. He wanted to go after her, drag her into that sorry excuse for a bed, and make astounding love to her. He threw back his head and expelled a choked breath. Hand trembling more than he liked, he dug into his pocket and lifted the scrap of muslin to his nose: the ever-present earthy scent, a touch of lemon, honeysuckle.

His sheets, hell, his entire bedroom, smelled of her. Couldn't go there.

The door slammed behind him. He tripped over a textbook, skidded across glossy pine, and sank into the chair he slept in most nights, where dreams of Elle slicked his skin to worn leather. Dreams that had him jerking awake and reaching for her.

They had ballooned to intense proportions, incredibly vivid, although he was able to rationalize them, or at the very least, his reasons for having them. He had recently read a commentary by an Austrian psychiatrist who speculated that dreams revealed a person's deepest desire in its most blatant form. This made sense, because having Elle naked and writhing beneath him represented Noah's deepest desire at present. Nonsensical, but true.

He sloped forward, hands going to his knees. Dreams he could dispute. Scientifically, if this psychiatrist was correct. The agony crowding his chest, he had no argument for. Even worse, he feared his feelings as he'd never feared anything in his life. When he'd turned to see his spectacles perched on Elle's nose, her lovely eyes distorted by the lenses, it wasn't desire that galloped through him like a high-kicking mule.

Somewhere in the coach house, a branch slapped a windowpane. Tipping his head, he observed a spider spinning a web around the aged kerosene chandelier and realized he was in deep trouble.

I'm falling in love with Elle Beaumont.

Though precise classification would have been a blessing—he was not able confirm the assumption in definite terms. Besides love for his family, he did not completely fathom the emotion.

Or welcome it.

Just the same, there were far too many factual incidents for a scientist to ignore.

He yanked the scrap of muslin in two and flung the pieces to the floor. Zach spoke the truth. Emotions were
not
rational. Love didn't require precise classification. Hadn't the past month—being with his brothers again and unearthing the affection hidden deep in his heart—taught him that lesson?

It had, but familial love he
wanted.

Somehow, Elle had worked her way under his skin.

Or, dear God, had she been there all along?

He slumped, dazed. She loved sunrises and chocolate ice cream. He liked sunsets and vanilla. She thrived on chaos. He loathed chaos. She dreamed impossible dreams. He renounced impossibilities of any kind. He was boring and predictable; she fairly glowed with dynamism and vigor.

A rational solution must exist.

He snapped his fingers and strode to his desk. Squinting, he shoved aside the latest Sierra Club
Bulletin
and an empty specimen bottle, grabbed his notebook, and flipped to the first blank sheet. He plundered through papers and located the fountain pen he had received for five years service with the fisheries commission.

Walking backward, his legs bumped the chair, and he dropped into it. He brought the notebook close to his face and drew a line down the sheet. Things he admired about Elle went on the right, things he despised on the left. He began writing, his hand sweeping the page. Dismayed when the right list grew considerably longer than the left, he ripped the sheet out and wadded the paper into a ball. It hit the floor with a crinkle.

He tapped his pen on the notebook and decided to approach the problem from a different angle. In the same fashion he would a research project where the conclusion was certain but procurable by various methods.
Outcome: mind free of Elle Beaumont.
The pen moved swiftly, until he had two pages of concise clarification and a systematic strategy for avoiding Elle—thereby reducing his engrossment, as he politely termed it.

Fine. Good. He had listened to the warning signs—like any decent researcher—and devised a plan. He would throw himself into his work and spend time with his family. No more kisses. Blessit, no more
anything
that involved touching her. No more daydreams—actual dreams he couldn't hope to control. No more considerate gestures. Eating dinner with her or repairing her shutters was forbidden. He had been planning to mow her grass; he would ask Caleb.

Also, he thought discussing the situation with Caroline might help. Perhaps, he could secure her assistance. Glancing at the plank-and-beam ceiling, he pictured the tangle of fragrant sheets covering his bed. His fingers tightened around the fountain pen. He lifted the notebook and scribbled one last notation.

Maybe it wasn't crucial, but he listed it anyway. Less urgency to tell Elle, which, remarkably, he found he really wanted to do. After all, what purpose would it serve to tell her that the astounding taste of her, the exquisite
feel
of her, had erased any sexual experiences in his past like chalk dust from a blackboard? He snapped his notebook shut.

No need to tell her. No need at all.

Chapter 14

"I believe we have a simpler explanation."

C. Wyville Thomson

The Depths of the Sea

Her mother's cameo caught a spark of sunlight as Elle pinned it to the collar of her percale blouse. Her father's solicitor, Mr. Hobbs, never realized this piece of jewelry served as the sole legacy from a devoted father to his wayward daughter.

Mr. Hobbs would be surprised, and her father angered, to know she had nullified the codicil two days before the reading. Reaching into her trouser pocket, Elle touched the scholarship-acceptance letter. She had telegraphed her agreement and had received a reply from Savannah this morning. The committee anticipated her arrival in New York City in no later than seven days. There were applications to submit, a lesson of study to organize, and an awards luncheon to attend. The largest responsibility would be preparing Savannah to manage the school during her absence.

This activity might keep her mind from straying to impossible dreams, even if her heart seemed captured for life.

She leaned against the staircase railing outside her father's office and tipped her face to the cloudless blue sky. A familiar voice filtered past the thud of ships edging the dock. A wave of heat—totally unrelated to the sun beating down on her back—lit her from the inside out. Closing her eyes, she strained to hear his words.

"...quantity
and
size. Blessit, Zach... need both. You volunteered... stupid questions."

Warm laughter traveled the distance. Lids lifting, she watched Zach pitch a fish at his brother's head. In turn, Noah pivoted, stuffing a thick book beneath his armpit, and snared the fish with one hand. "Nice try," she thought she heard him say.

She stared, wishing he stood a little closer, wishing fewer people crowded the street. Wishing the memory of his body pressing down upon hers would leave her mind for one blasted
minute.

Noah poked inside the barrels circling the
Nellie Dey's
gangplank and turned to scribble in his book. A lock of hair fell into his face, and he flicked it back. Zach yelled a number, which he noted with a slight incline of his head and another furious scratch. An image of those long, sun-kissed fingers trailing over her shoulders, teasing her breasts and hauling her hips to his, forced her to wedge her knees against the wooden railing. To add to her humiliation, her nipples pebbled beneath her shift, an abrasive reminder her of her weakness.

Forcing her legs to move, she shot down the stairs. Between swaying carts loaded with casks and piles of lumber, she caught glimpses of the man she had worked diligently to ignore.

Something seemed different. His trousers were wrinkled. Sloppily rolled sleeves capped his elbows and dirt soiled his knees. And his hair, curling about his head, lacked hat or pomade, and needed cutting. His appearance didn't keep Meredith Scoggins from yelling his name and crossing the street with an eager stride.

For eight days and fourteen hours, they had avoided each other. Except for one collision. Four days ago, leaving the post office as he entered. He had grabbed her arms and stared for a strained, impassioned moment into her face. Then, they jerked apart and departed in opposite directions.