by Anne Stuart
“I thought you’d left,” Johnny said, apparently unconcerned by her defection. He was scrambling eggs, and the bacon was already draining on a linen towel. Did they even have paper towels yet?
Her mouth was watering, and in another moment she’d begin to drool. “You don’t appear to have missed me.”
He shot her a brief glance before returning to the fluffy eggs. “I’d assumed you were a temporary inconvenience, not a permanent part of my life.”
The words hung in the air. He was still concentrating on cooking, and there was no denying or explaining the sudden pinch in her chest, but she shook it off. He thought, with justification, that she was a pain in the ass, and nothing she said would change his mind, so she simply moved closer to all that was delicious—the bacon, the eggs, the scent of food, Johnny Larsen. Oh, crap.
He didn’t seem to expect a response. “Make yourself useful. There’s bread over there—I imagine you can use a toaster despite your patrician upbringing.”
“I don’t have a patrician upbringing,” she said. “Of course I can use a toaster.” She’d been tempted to snap at him, but since he was going to feed her, she could give him a pass on his snotty attitude.
“It’s one of the new-fangled ones. It pops up automatically.”
“Will wonders never cease?” she murmured.
He was already turning off the gas beneath the frying pan, and she set to work quickly, delivering the toast in time for him to scoop the perfect, fluffy eggs on top of it, with a side of bacon. “You’re a good cook,” she said tentatively. Cooking eggs perfectly was harder than it seemed.
“You haven’t tasted it yet. Grape or orange? Or grapefruit?”
She tried the Colbert eyebrow but it must have been an epic fail, because he simply looked at her impatiently, then added, “Juice?”
“Oh. Orange.”
“In the icebox.”
She looked around her, but the only thing that would hold cold things was a rectangular metal cabinet with something that looked like a flying saucer on top. She opened it and found a glass bottle of what she assumed was orange juice, as well as milk in an odd-looking bottle with a bulbous growth on top. There was no freezer at all, just a tiny compartment in the middle of the appliance. “This isn’t an icebox.”
“So sue me. Frigidaire, then.”
“It’s a Hotpoint.”
He rolled his eyes. She rolled hers right back. “You wanna eat?” He didn’t wait for her vigorous nod. “Then stop arguing.”
He’d already set the table for two, and she looked down at the plate of food he’d just dropped there. “How did you know I’d find you?” she said, starting to slide into the chair when she realized, to her complete shock, that he was pushing her in like a proper little gentleman.
“I don’t know much about you, princess, but I do know you have a hollow leg. I just counted on your nose to lead you to the nearest meal.”
He was such an asshole. He was, however, a talented asshole, and while she wanted to devour everything, she forced herself to eat slowly, to savor each bite. Conversation would simply slow her down.
“You know how to cook,” she said. “I bet with your attitude, you spent a lot of time doing KP during the war.”
It was as if a shutter had slammed down between them. His eyes went very dark, his mouth turned grim, and he shoved back from the table so fast the half-filled glass of orange juice tipped and dumped into her lap. Unlike him, she didn’t move, letting the cold juice slide down her thighs.
“I was undercover with the resistance,” he said in a flat voice. “I destroyed things. I killed people.”
Chapter 7
So apparently they had PTSD in the 1940s, Madison thought, staring after him. And she’d just screwed up big time.
Her dress was soaked. Johnny wasn’t coming back any time soon, so she pulled it over her head and rinsed it in the sink, then hung it on what appeared to be a radiator. It shouldn’t take long to dry, and the full-length slip had practically a wedding dress worth of lace and coverage if anybody came in. She moved to the sink.
There was no sign of dish detergent anywhere. Only a box of Ivory Snow with, oh my god, dishes on the front. Filling the sink with hot water, she dumped half a cup of the soft flakes into it, coming up with satisfactory bubbles, and proceeded to clean everything Johnny had used for their abbreviated feast. She then went the extra mile and dried everything with a heavy linen towel and replaced them on the shelves, even washed the sticky orange juice from the floor. Reaching for her dress, she realized that it was still uncomfortably damp, and she really didn’t like the idea of wearing it.
She looked around her. Things looked neat and tidy, and there was nothing else to do but head back to her lumpy couch and try to fall asleep, secure in the knowledge that Johnny was going to stay as far away from her as he possibly could.
And that left her once more in his debt. She should have realized that war was always horrific, never a topic for a light joke. How the hell was she going to apologize for bringing it up when even mentioning it in the first place had set off such a reaction?
Okay, she was going to spend the next few hours on her best behavior. Sooner or later she was going to run into him, and she’d do her best to both apologize to him and thank him, all without him realizing that she had. Instinctively she knew that he’d hate gratitude as much as war memories.
The kitchen still smelled faintly of bacon, but there was nothing she could do about it. Scooping up her damp dress, she headed for the door.
Straight into Johnny. Straight into his arms, which automatically came around her; straight into his hard, solid chest; straight into his warmth, his safety, his strength. She felt her body relax against his. Like a sponge soaking up water, she was soaking up his solid, powerful presence. If he didn’t like her, he could shove her away.
He didn’t shove her away. Instead he pulled her closer, her hips pressed against his, and she wanted to close her eyes and purr. She didn’t move. They stood like that in the murky light for a silent, endless time, and for some reason she could feel tears sting her eyes. Again? What was wrong with her?
“What the hell are you wearing?” He sounded confused, not cranky, and his hands slid up her back, molding her to him.
She just wanted to bury her face against his shoulder, to let go of everything, but sooner or later this moment would pass, and she needed to protect herself. “My dress is wet.”
His hold didn’t slacken. “Why?”
She took a breath, and the act made her sink even closer. He smelled wonderful—shaving soap and water and linen and warm skin, and she wanted to press her face against that skin. Holy shit! She was the one who needed to push away, but she couldn’t make herself. She had to hold on as long as she could. “I...I had to rinse out my dress. There was orange juice on my skirt. It...it isn’t quite dry.” She was stammering like an idiot. Move away, she told herself. There’s no future here, only the distant past. Seventy years past.
“I’m a jerk.” His voice rumbled from his chest.
“So what else is new?” she whispered and was rewarded with a rusty-sounding laugh.
She did her best to look chipper when he released her and stepped back. “You should get some sleep. I’ll go take care of the dishes...”
“Already did them.”
Again that adorable eyebrow lift that made her want to kick him. “Was that a first for you?”
She blinked. “Say what?”
He blinked. “You were clearly born with a silver spoon in your mouth. I bet you’ve never washed a dish in your life.”
It was definitely convenient that every time she started to melt, he said something to infuriate her. “Then you would have lost that bet, mister,” she said. “I worked my way through college in some of the best kitchens around Mount Holyoke. Look at my hands! Are they the hands of a slacker?” She shoved them at him, and he had no choice but to take them, looking down.
She looked as well, s
uddenly uncertain, and then breathed a sigh of relief. They were still her hands, her body was still her own, just with different covering. Her nails were short, unvarnished, her hands strong and capable. She shot him a triumphant glance, then caught her breath. He was still holding her hands, his thumbs absently stroking her palms, and she felt the heat spread into her body, flowering in her veins.
And then he dropped them. “Find yourself a bed,” he said. “I’ll make sure everything’s the way it should be.” He had already turned away, dismissing her, damn it.
“What do you mean, find myself a bed?”
He halted, and she could the tension in his strong shoulders. “This is the furniture floor, remember? There are more than half a dozen bedroom displays set up—choose one. But not the ugly red one—that doesn’t have a real mattress, just a wooden block. The rest have sheets and pillows. Go make yourself cozy.”
“So I’ll wake up with a crowd of customers staring at me like I’m Goldilocks?”
At least that reference was still pertinent. “Your hair’s red,” he said flatly. “And tomorrow’s Sunday.”
“My hair is not red!” she said automatically. At worst, it was maybe a reddish brown. “And what’s Sunday got to do with anything?”
“Meaning the store is closed tomorrow. The three bears will be at church.”
“What about the security guards? There must be some, though how you get away with staying here amazes me.”
He frowned. “Keep away from them.”
“No, duh. How do I manage that if I’m sleeping? And for that matter, how do you manage it?”
“We have an agreement. They look the other way if we run across each other. I don’t think they’d be so broadminded when it comes to you. Most of them are family men.”
He’d turned back to her, and he was leaning against one of the makeshift room dividers. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded.
“What you think it means?”
Her irritation was very real. “I don’t know what it means, you big lug.” Lug? What the hell was that, and where had it come from?
“It means that they’re traditional men with traditional beliefs, and they’d see you either as a wayward daughter who needs to be protected from my brute charms or a tramp, and they wouldn’t listen to any excuses.”
She stared at him, dumbfounded. “So women are either madonnas or whores?”
“Good way to put it. Yes.”
She shook her head in disgust. “I’m too tired to argue with you. Where are you sleeping?”
“Not with you.”
“Dream on, big boy.”
His mouth quirked. “I probably will. Nevertheless, I’m not touching you again.”
Okay, he brought it up. “Then why did you kiss me?”
“Beats me. Temporary insanity.”
It was the battle of the dueling eyebrows. She arched hers provocatively. “Oh, really?”
“Look, lady, it’s not that you aren’t a dish, because you’re smart enough to know just what you do to a man. But I’m not having any of it.”
She considered saying “Oh, really” again, but thought better of it. “Why?” she asked flatly.
That managed to throw him off for a moment, but he rallied. “Because you’re nothing but trouble. If you’re married, running away from your husband or something, that could get a man killed. If you’re a hooker, I don’t need to pay. If you’re an innocent, I’m not coming near you. I’ve got nothing to offer you.”
“Innocent? Don’t be ridiculous,” she said flatly, watching to see his reaction. It didn’t seem to faze him. “I’m not married or running from anyone, and I’m certainly not a hooker.”
“Then what the hell are you doing here?” Frustration rose in his voice.
She could try one more time. She could tell him the truth, everything that had happened, but she’d never convince him. She couldn’t blame him for that—she couldn’t convince herself.
She realized the silence had stretched, and he was looking at her with a cynical expression. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I don’t expect you to tell me, and you’re smart enough not to bother with a cock and bull story from the Saturday serials. I tell you what—just to be safe, I’ll decamp to a hotel until you get tired of your little adventure. If you keep away from the security detail you should be just fine. And watch out for a guy named Benny. He’s bad news.”
“Is he another Ratchett?” she asked, remembering Rosa’s warning, remembering all the men who’d put their hands on her.
“He’s a hell of a lot worse. He likes to hurt people, and I don’t feel like picking up the pieces.”
“I wouldn’t think of putting you to the trouble,” she said stiffly. “I can pick up my own pieces.” That patently idiotic statement was out of her mouth before she could stop to think, and she simply doubled down with a glare.
He didn’t call her on it. “Keep away from Ratchett too. He’s not as dangerous as Benny, but he can pretty much call the shots around here if I’m not there to protect you. I don’t like it when men prey on helpless females.”
She wanted to snap back that she was far from helpless, but sudden doubt swept her. She had every intention of simply walking away from her recent job because of Ronson’s manhandling, just as she’d walked away over and over. Her efforts to fight back had been no more than cursory, and now she was trapped in a world where there really was no recourse.
And then she remembered what he’d said. “So why are you leaving?” She heard the slightly anxious tone in her voice and winced, but she couldn’t help it. He was her lodestone, her reference point, her connection to this insane world she’d landed in, and if he left her, she’d have nothing and no one to hold on to.
For a moment he said nothing, his mouth tightening, and she had no idea what he was thinking. Whatever it was, he wasn’t about to share. “Let’s find you a bed,” he said finally. “We can fight tomorrow.”
“I’m not fighting.”
“I sure the hell am,” he said, starting off.
There was nothing she could say to that, so she simply wracked her brain for some way to convince him to stay. “Why don’t you have an apartment? Macy’s must pay you enough for at least a studio.”
“You really expect answers from me when you won’t tell me anything but lies? Dream on, sister,” he said mildly enough, but at least he was making no effort to leave. She had the horrible fear that she’d grab his ankles to keep him from abandoning her. “I don’t have any dark, terrible secrets. I can afford an apartment—I just don’t want one. I don’t want anything tying me down, and this job is only temporary. I’m waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
His bright blue eyes narrowed. “I’ll know it when I see it. As for safety, I’m not the one who’s vulnerable, you are.”
“Why?”
He blew out a frustrated breath. “Because you’re alone in this place with a healthy, red-blooded American male, and that’s not a good thing for any girl.”
She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to laugh, cry or scream. “You mean that a healthy, red-blooded American male can’t control himself when he’s around a woman, particularly one he doesn’t like? I’m surprised civilization has survived this long. You’re telling me you’re so weak-willed that you’d jump my bones simply because you’re alone with me? I don’t believe it. You may be a sexist pain in the butt, but you don’t strike me as a serial rapist.”
“Sexist?”
“Misogynist. Someone who thinks their gender is superior and the other is put on earth to serve them. Something who thinks women are girls and are asking for trouble. Someone who...”
“I get the picture.” He was watching her with an odd, abstracted expression on his face, as if he were doing the Sunday crossword puzzle in ink and she was the right word but she didn’t fit. “And who says I don’t like you?”
Danger, Will Robinson. She ignored the warning. “You don’t act like it.”
“I’ll remind you—we’re alone in this place. Fighting is safer. And if you call me a rapist again, I’ll clock you.”
“Oh, not a rapist, just an abuser of women.”
He closed his eyes and muttered something under his breath. When he opened them again he looked at her. “Much as I’d like to strangle you right now, I’m not a rapist, a bully, a user or abuser of women or girls. But I’m not most men, I can’t protect you all the time, and you, lady, are cruising for a bruising. You don’t seem to have a lick of common sense—it’s as if you’ve spent your entire life in a bubble and everything is new. Men will take advantage of that wide-eyed look, and I won’t always be there to fight them off.”
“Who have you beaten off with a stick recently?” she shot back.
“Two security guards, a kid in shipping, George in Habo, Dick in Housewares, and I’ve been doing my best to keep you as far away from Ratchett as possible. It hasn’t come to blows yet, but most of them would rather piss themselves than get near you again. And that’s another thing. You don’t even blink when I swear, you use language that would make a sailor blush, and yet you look like someone who wouldn’t say shit if her mouth was full of it.”
That startled a laugh out of her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you’ve lived in some pretty strange places with some pretty strange people, and the fact that you’re not telling who or where makes it even more troubling. I expect the men in the little white coats and butterfly nets are going to appear at any minute and cart you back to the asylum.”
The truth was definitely out of the question. So was getting him to trust her. She couldn’t stop him from going, and she was damned if she was going to beg. “I’m tired of arguing. Do whatever the fuck you want.”