“Not properly,” he answered, his large hand kneading the velvety material of her jacket as he pulled her toward him.
She ran her hands over his T-shirt as he kissed her, then abandoning any pretense of casual interest, she ran her hands under the soft shirt to feel his skin beneath. The skin-to-skin contact was unbearably sweet, and sweeter yet when his hands took the same path up her spine.
“I have something important to say,” he whispered in her ear when they had reached a point where stripping off their shirts was the next logical step. “It’s four o’clock. Crawfish time.”
“Let’s be a little late. I hate watching them cook.” She straightened her shirt, then his, and rested her cheek against it.
He nuzzled her ear with his nose, punctuating his sentence with a shiver-inducing swipe of his tongue. “I have a feeling if we’re too late, there won’t be anything left. Are you willing to risk it?”
“Mmm. . .I’m beginning to think the bigger risk is staying here with you.” Gently she pushed him away and stood on shaky legs, offering him a hand.
They walked back in silence, their arms wrapped tightly around each other’s waists.
To Bethany’s relief the first few batches of crawfish had been cooked in her absence. Picnic tables were spread with newspaper, and the steaming crawfish had been dumped in piles in the center of each table.
They had been boiled with handfuls of spices, as well as red pepper and garlic. Whole onions, corn on the cob, new potatoes and chunks of andouille sausage had been thrown in for flavor and dumped on the table, too. The entire meal was supposed to be eaten with fingers, and the delicious juices unashamedly licked off when necessary. It was easy to tell natives from novices by measuring the piles of shells rapidly building in front of each.
Bethany, who placed somewhere between, took longer to peel her crawfish than some, but unabashedly put the head in her mouth and sucked the spicy juices with the best of the natives. Justin, for all his elegant manners, peeled crawfish like a Cajun.
Great quantities of cold beer washed down the eye-watering food, and people grew merrier accordingly. The meal seemed to go on forever, with laughter, telling of jokes, gossiping and—more crawfish. It was no matter that some portion of the conversation was in Cajun French, a language Bethany would never understand. The spirit could be absorbed easily.
“When you come see us again, you?” Maman Robicheaux asked as her long nimble fingers popped meat out of the crawfish tails so Abby could eat it.
“After Mardi Gras. Then I can take some time off to relax and visit.”
“You should come visit us some year for the Mardi Gras. We have a fais dodo that night like in the old days,” Maman answered.
Lamar had told Abby and Bethany stories of the Cajun Mardi Gras celebrations. An old custom called for bands of masked riders or runners to whip through the countryside looking for chickens, rice and other provisions for the gumbo pot. Often the bands would dress as clowns, and their horses would be decorated, too. The farms that they visited gave them food, and the ingredients would then be taken to the dance hall, where huge kettles of gumbo were made to be served at the big fais dodo or community dance that night. Although the custom had died out in some places, it had experienced a revival in others, along with additional traditions peculiar to Cajun life. Lamar and others like him were determined to see that the great melting pot didn’t destroy the best their unique culture had to offer.
“I’ll come to Bayou Lafourche if you’ll walk through the French Quarter with me on Mardi Gras Day,” Bethany teased.
“The things I’ve heard about your Mardi Gras,” Maman said, pretending to fan herself with her napkin.
A burst of music from the shore of the pond had Abby scrambling to her feet. “Look, Mommy, Lamar’s fiddling.”
Stretching and groaning simultaneously, Bethany took the little girl’s hand and allowed herself to be pulled toward the sound. Lamar was playing his fiddle, accompanied by his brother Aldus on the accordion and another man on an unplugged electric guitar. Celin was beside Lamar with a metal triangle for emphasis. Although not nearly as polished as the band Lamar performed with regularly, the little group had plenty of Cajun soul.
Cajun music was meant to be danced to, and Abby began her own impromptu routine, joined by other children as more partygoers with instruments joined the musicians. Eventually some of the adults began to drift toward the sound, pairing off to do a graceful, old-fashioned two-step or, music permitting, a bumpy outdoor waltz.
“Would the lovely mask maker like to try this one?” Justin’s voice stroked her ear with its husky whisper.
“I’d love to,” she answered, going into his arms. Lamar was singing a plaintive ballad, “La Delaissee,” a folk song she had heard him sing many times before. It wasn’t really meant to be danced to, but that suited Bethany just fine. Justin took her in his arms and they swayed slowly to the music.
“Lamar refuses to translate this for me,” she said against his chest. “Is it such a naughty song?”
Justin had been concentrating on the words, and he pulled her closer. “Not at all.”
“Tell me, then.”
“From what I can piece together I’m afraid Lamar was trying to protect you. The song’s about a young girl, pretty as a flower, who falls under the spell of an unfaithful man who seduces her and leaves her pregnant.”
“I’m sorry I asked.”
“She gets her retribution, though. She murders him.”
“Why didn’t I think of that?” she said.
The next song was livelier, since it was sung by Mardi Gras bands on the road looking for food for their gumbo pot. Others followed, and more couples joined Bethany and Justin. The sun set over the tall oaks, leaving a sky streaked with purple and orange. “It’s a Mardi Gras sky,” Bethany said. “Even the sun king is celebrating carnival.”
With regret and the realization she had a tired little girl, Bethany found Maman Robicheaux to say their goodbyes. Most of the Robicheaux family was going in to the French Quarter to see Lamar perform before driving back to Bayou Lafourche. Bethany had discarded that option.
“I promise,” she told the older woman, “I’ll come see you as soon as I can.”
“Bring that man,” Maman said, nodding toward Justin. “I’m gonna set him on the right path for you.”
Heaven help Justin if he ever had to tangle with Maman Robicheaux. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she promised, as she gave Lamar’s mother a goodbye hug. When all her other farewells had been said, she found Justin leaning against an enormous oak tree, holding a sleeping Abby against his chest. Bethany followed him back to the car caught in a bubble of happiness.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“WHERE DO I put her,” Justin whispered as he carried Abby into the apartment. “She must have eaten her weight in crawfish. She’s twice as heavy as usual.”
“All the excitement completely exhausted her. She’s dead to the world.”
Bethany stroked her daughter’s hair, but the little girl slept on. “Let me pull out the sofa bed. That’s where she usually sleeps.”
Carefully piling the cushions on the floor, Bethany tugged the hidden mattress into place. The sofa was now a double bed, complete with pink sheets and lightweight patchwork quilt. Without needing to see Justin’s expression she defended their sleeping arrangements. “It’s actually very comfortable, and she doesn’t mind.”
“You don’t have to explain.” He carefully laid Abby on the sheets and fingered the embroidered pillowcases as Bethany undressed the sleeping child. “This is beautiful. Did you do it?”
She nodded. The hem was crowded with colorful animals playfully chasing one another across the fabric. The patchwork quilt featured the same animals, but one to a square. Justin’s unexpected compliment when she had expected criticism warmed her.
“When I was busy finding fault with the way you were raising our daughter, I should have been more aware of all you’ve done so well,”
he said.
“Thank you for noticing.” She felt his eyes on her, but to avoid looking at him she busied herself smoothing the sheet and tucking the quilt around Abby. The intimacy of standing over their sleeping child suddenly seemed like a lot to handle. For someone who prided herself on the honest expression of feelings, she was tongue-tied.
The apartment was dim, lit only by a lamp in her bedroom and moonlight filtering through the tall windows. Except for the sleeping child she and Justin were completely alone, and the barriers of the past weeks were no longer between them.
She straightened. There was nothing to be gained by allowing the magic of the place and day to rule her emotions.
Her eyes sought Justin’s. He was watching her and neither of them looked away.
They stood on opposite sides of Abby’s bed, silent and still, and she was afraid any movement would break the spell that bound them to each other. Finally Justin stretched his hand across the bed, and she saw that it trembled slightly. Grasping it, she let him pull her to stand at the foot.
They faced each other, only their hands touching, and Bethany wondered if a woman could be devoured by desire. If his eyes, his expression, could heat her blood so quickly, she wondered what his touch and kiss would do. The wall of problems between them seemed to tumble to the ground. She felt vulnerable, more vulnerable perhaps than she had felt the first time they’d made love.
Now she understood only too well what pleasure and pain that act could cause them.
“I want you the way I’ve never wanted anything in my life,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “But if you tell me to go I’ll understand. Maybe it’s too soon. . .or too late.”
It was both. And wasn’t it possible that when those two entities were added together the summation was “now?” She was a fool to be adding up the decisions of a lifetime like a third-grade math problem, but no matter how foolish her calculations, the answer was the right one for her.
“I could no more tell you to go away tonight than I could cut out my heart. But I have to tell you something first,” she said as she withdrew her hands to face him without the anchor of his touch. “I love you, Justin. I never stopped, although I tried hard to exile you from my life. You need to know that, and if it makes a difference, then you should leave.”
“After all that’s passed between us,” he said with a catch in his voice, “and with everything ahead, you still trust me enough to say that?”
“When I stopped trusting you, things fell apart.”
“You can hardly be blamed for that.”
“I’ve stopped assigning blame.” She stepped closer. “At the moment, love’s enough to contend with.”
He didn’t move toward her, but she knew he wanted to. He didn’t want to hurt her again. The reality of everything that had occurred would stand between them forever. But she was no longer an innocent who believed a man was in charge of her life or her body. Now she was in charge.
She stripped off the jacket of her running suit and tossed it on the floor before she rested her hands on his shoulders. He had left his in the car folded as a pillow for their dozing daughter. Very slowly she began to brush her thumbs back and forth along his collar bone, her eyes never leaving his.
“It’s warm inside. You won’t need this T-shirt.” She drew her thumbs slowly toward his waist, her fingers fluttering provocatively in their wake. She hooked them under the hem and began to lift the shirt higher. His skin was burnished bronze. She remembered the taste, the smell and most of all, the texture. When he didn’t lift his arms to help her she lifted a brow in question.
She splayed her fingers under the shirt, to the dark curls tapering to his waist and below, sweeping slowly higher against his skin with the shirt against the backs of her hands.
“A little cooperation?” she asked with just the hint of a smile.
“Only a little?”
“I think so, yes. Mostly, I’m doing fine on my own.”
He slowly raised his arms over his head, and she grasped the knit fabric, bunched it in her hands, and deftly pulled the shirt over his head, although she had to stand on tiptoe to finish.
He was so beautiful, broad-shouldered, muscular, tanned. She dropped the shirt at his feet. “We’ll have to remember to retrieve that.”
“Do you want our daughter to find a pile of my clothes on the floor when she wakes up tomorrow?”
This time she raised both brows in surprise. “A pile? That’s reaching, isn’t it? This is just one T-shirt. And tomorrow is hours away.”
He took a step toward her, but she backed up. “No, not yet. This is the grown-up Bethany, and I’m not finished here.”
His teeth flashed white in the semi-darkness. “You don’t think so?”
“I’m absolutely sure.” She smoothed her palms up to his shoulders so slowly that she felt his muscles clenching in response, and somewhere deep inside her, she felt her own body clenching. She dragged her thumbs against his nipples as she moved closer to embrace him. She heard something very much like a moan pass his lips.
Stroking her fingers up and down his back she lightly pressed her hips against his, although again, she had to lift on the balls of her feet. Not surprised she realized he was already aroused. That, too, hadn’t changed. He had always been quick to respond, and insatiable.
She tilted her head, then she lifted higher and brushed her lips against his chin, to the side of his mouth, then quickly over it, circling back. When she finally settled fully against him, his arms came around her, holding her tight and suddenly nobody was in charge anymore.
He lifted her easily, swung her up in his arms and carried her into the bedroom, nudging the door closed with his knee.
“How nice that you work out.” She gripped his biceps and tilted her head so she could see his face. “Carrying me is so much quicker than what I had planned.”
“You’re trying to drive me crazy, aren’t you?”
“If I only could.”
“You always have.”
“You hide it so well.”
He gave a low laugh, leaned down and dropped her against the mattress, instantly following to lie across her to be sure she stayed there.
His weight pinning her to the mattress was delicious. “A bed, not a carpet,” she said. “Will it do?”
“I’m going to take off that shirt.” He inched away, but she quickly squirmed to one side and sat up.
“I think I’ll do it myself, thanks.” She smiled, then slowly she crossed her arms and inched up the shirt, as slowly as her fast-ebbing coordination would allow. She wriggled to one side and got to her feet before she dropped it on the floor. Then she smoothed her hands against her midriff until they were behind her and she was unclasping her bra.
His eyes were dark and hooded, but she smiled a little. “This should go, too, don’t you think?” In a moment the bra joined the T-shirt and she was naked from the waist up. Then, as he watched, sitting completely still except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest, she inched both running pants and panties slowly, so slowly, over her hips.
At the last second she realized she was wearing shoes. Shoes tied tightly enough that she couldn’t kick them off. She shrugged. “A small obstacle has appeared.”
In an instant he was kneeling on the floor, untying the shoes and slipping them off her feet, as she sank to the bed and straightened each leg to give him easier access. The socks went, too and finally she was naked.
“Bethany.” The word rumbled with promise.
“Here’s a question. Which of us can undress you faster?”
He won easily. She rolled to the side to make room for him, and seconds later he was stretched out beside her, but not before he deposited a foil package on the nightstand.
Of the two of them, Justin was the one for whom preparation was the easiest tonight, and she was beyond delighted at his foresight—and what it said.
Each part of him was hard and as finely wrought as a statue carved from cypress. And now
that he was naked before her, the evidence of his desire put to rest any lingering fears.
She wanted nothing more than to melt into him. She knew that was what he wanted, too, but she had a different plan. She flung one leg over his, then she rolled on top, sitting up. She leaned over and took his hands and pinned them against the mattress. Then she began to kiss him, sliding her lips in tiny, nipping kisses over his chin, his neck, first one shoulder, then another.
Five years ago Justin had always taken the lead, and she had always let him. At first she had known too little, and later too much, because everything he’d done had given her such intense pleasure. Now, though, she wanted to give him pleasure, too.
He was stronger than she was, though, and after the kisses had gone on and on, he easily shook off her hands to let his tangle in her hair and hold her against him.
“More?” she asked, sitting up.
Lightning quick he cupped her breasts, and she arched her back and moaned.
“Yes, more.” His eyes closed briefly. Then, before she could protest, he rolled, taking her down to position her beneath him in one fluid movement.
“More,” he said, “only it’s my more now.”
He began his own explorations. Roughened fingertips against silky skin, body brushing body, lingering, adjusting, moving faster, slower. He kissed her the way she had kissed him until the kisses deepened and tongue danced with tongue.
When his hand began to explore more intimately she moved against it, thought suspended. She had planned for this to be different, but his patience had ended. Now he wouldn’t allow her to take control, and the pleasure he was bringing her was fast coming to conclusion.
“Justin. . .” Her patience ended, too.
His name. Just his name. That one word seemed to be all he had wanted. He tore open the packet and began to smooth down the condom. She lifted and did it instead, stroking it slowly downward until he was fully protected. Then he nudged her to the bed again, and with his body poised above, he entered her slowly, with a restraint that seemed almost demonic. When he was fully inside he stopped, as if waiting for her to accustom herself to the feel of him again.
The Unmasking Page 20