It sounded like a palace. She said nothing, only looked down at her hands.
He gave a heavy sigh and eased the car forward as the light changed. "We'd have first option to buy when everything's straightened out, if you're happy with it."
Her head came up sharply then. "Would you want to relocate around here?"
He shrugged. "I like this area. Hell, I've been a Pirates' fan all my life. And it's close to my folks, but not too close. I love 'em, but I wouldn't want to live in their pockets. Besides, you and Tobie have put down roots here."
"I thought you had a home," she said, staring at his profile, shifting in and out of view as they passed the streetlights.
"Outside of Nashville, yeah." He gave a short laugh. "I'm there maybe four weeks out of the year. Need it mainly when I'm recording. We can spend some time there, if you like, when Tobie's stabilized." He glanced at her. "Hell, I'm not fussy, Molly. I live on a bus."
She bit her bottom lip, shook her head, and laughed a little to herself. She could just imagine that bus.
"So, what do you say? We can take a look tomorrow morning before we go to the hospital."
What was the point in being petty? He didn't flaunt his wealth. It was just there, at his disposal. He could be happy in a two-room hole-in-the-wall. She knew. She'd been there with him. "That'll be fine," she said, and smiled at him.
He didn't really need to unpack. Just his shaving things and the gift he'd brought for Molly. He figured the way she reacted to his present would pretty well determine how things would go for the rest of the evening. She'd changed into jeans and a T-shirt, locking herself in the bathroom to do so. That wasn't a good sign. He didn't remember her being all that modest.
When he walked into the living room, feeling like a supplicant with his gift in his hand, she was setting two mugs on the counter. Tea for her and coffee for him. She'd never make a tea drinker out of him.
She glanced up, eyes wide and mouth agape when he set the package on the counter. The lady at the lingerie store had wrapped it with their trademark paper, all the while making coy remarks about him being newly married. Meantime he'd just wanted to crawl in a hole. He would never get used to the type of female who could talk about uplift and cleavage and French cut with any yo-yo who happened to walk in.
He didn't think Molly recognized the wrap. Probably she didn't buy her underthings at boutiques. "This is for me?" she said.
"Well, yeah. I hope you like it." He hoped they'd get over this stiffness that seemed to have insinuated itself between them since they'd been home, too.
She opened the present the way she always did, carefully, without tearing the paper even a little bit, folding it neatly and putting it aside, while he sat on his hands. He heard her inhale through pursed lips as she spread the tissue paper and lifted the teddy out of the box. "It's lovely, Charlie," she breathed.
Yes, it was. Just the right color for her skin, too. Champagne, not white. And not much froufrou at all. Only an edging of lace to encircle each thigh and a little patch there toward the center to show off her...cleavage. "I was kind of hoping you'd wear it to bed tonight."
Oh, yes, he was. He was still trying to decide if he'd undo the snaps first, taking his sweet time about it, his fingers lingering there between her thighs and lifting the teddy up. Or should he slide those skimpy straps off her shoulders, taking his sweet time about it, his mouth lingering over her breasts, while he skimmed the teddy down and off. Maybe they'd try it both ways, taking their sweet time about it, just to see which way they liked best.
"Maybe," he heard her say, but her smile was brittle and she was folding the garment into the box again. She put the gift aside and regarded him with an uneasy look.
Uneasy. What the hell was this? He wasn't the world's greatest lover, but he'd never been anything but tender, considerate with her. She had no call to be skittish with him.
He got off the stool, trying to swallow his disappointment.
With more conviction in his voice than he felt, he said, "Let's have some music, Molly. What would you like?" He strode over to her CD player, fingering the discs.
"Play something of yours," she suggested, perking up a little.
"Ugh. I can hardly stand to listen to some of them anymore." He pulled a disc from the rack. "How about George? He's got a nice way with a ballad. You like him, I can tell."
He started the player and the mellow tenor flowed around the room like warm syrup over hotcakes. Both arms braced on the shelves, Charlie eyed Molly over his shoulder. "Come dance with me, honey."
She hesitated just a moment before she rose and walked toward him. He stood facing her and smiled to himself as she wiped her palms down the front of her jeans. A characteristic gesture, one he recalled her making every single time they'd danced together. Unless things had changed considerably in the last eight years, and he'd venture to guess they hadn't, Molly was still no dancer.
She laid one hand on his shoulder and the other in his palm. Very proper. Her momma would approve. They hadn't completed a turn around the room, though, when they banged knees pretty good. Molly lifted her head to apologize and bumped his chin.
"I'm sorry, Charlie," she murmured, catching her lip between her teeth.
"It's all right. Just relax." He felt her stiffen even more in his arms and he grinned into her hair. Couple more awkward turns, and she came down real hard on his instep. He laughed out loud, then, and she looked up at him, her face a flustered shade of red.
"Did you forget everything I ever taught you?" he said when he could. "I will never understand how a woman with your musical ability can have absolutely no sense of rhythm."
"It's all in my hands, Charlie," she said, laughing with him. "It's a long way from my hands to my feet."
He stared down into her face, the smile leaving his, and a smoldering expression replacing it. "Kick off your shoes, Molly."
She'd known how this would end the moment he'd asked her to dance. And if she were honest with herself, she would admit that this was what she wanted. She backed away from him a little, pushed her shoes off and nudged them to the side of the room. Then she stepped back into his arms, placing her stockinged feet over the tops of his boots. The old way. The way he'd taught her.
He slid his thumbs into the back pockets of her jeans, spreading his fingers over the curves of her bottom and pulling her close. Just the way he always had. The position threw her off balance slightly, so that she had to wrap her arms around his neck to keep from tipping backward. She rested her forehead against his cheek, and thigh to thigh, belly to belly, chest to chest, his body communicating its every desire to hers, they danced.
Past and present merged in her mind, and the years slipped away.
She remembered the first time they had danced like this. Charlie had been performing at the old Blue Moon Lounge in Wheeling, and she'd gone with Lucy to see him. Lucy'd had her eye on the band's drummer at the time and disappeared with him when the group took a break. Molly had been left with Charlie.
He'd been leery of her, careful not to be alone with her, since that kiss they'd shared the previous summer. But the hour was late, the lights were dim, and the jukebox was chugging out slow ones. So he'd asked her to dance, taught her to dance.
That was the first time she'd truly experienced exactly what desire did to a man's body. Nestled against him, absorbing his heat, she was aware of his every breath, every pulse beat And against her belly, she could feel him rise and swell.
She'd been embarrassed when she realized what was happening, and, to his credit, he'd seemed embarrassed, too. Charlie'd never been one to impose himself on a woman. He'd apologized when he noticed her confusion and guided her to a small, secluded table where she had a soda and he smoked. But whenever she'd lifted her gaze from the glass to steal a glance at him, she'd found his black eyes watching her.
At last he'd stubbed out his cigarette and leaned toward her. "I'm sorry," he'd told her, "if I offended you. I didn't mean to, and I don't
expect anything. But you're beautiful—" those were his exact words; he thought she was beautiful "—and sometimes just thinking about you does that to me."
It was another year before he held her that way again. In between she'd seen him with a different girl every week, two-steppin' his way across hearts. And she'd done her share of dating, too, slapping the young men's hands away from her bra and out from under her skirt. They didn't seem to have nearly the consideration for her person that Charlie did.
The next time they'd danced had been at a party at the Cochranes'. His family gave the best parties. They didn't have much money, so everyone brought drinks and food. But music and laughter and good times rocked the house. Molly had finagled an invitation from Lucy, though they weren't as close as they once had been.
The house had gotten hot and loud. Molly escaped to the yard where the night air was cool and filled with the high-pitched buzz of crickets rubbing their wings together in eager anticipation of whatever it is that crickets eagerly anticipate. She saw Charlie sitting in the darkness on the bottom back porch stair, smoking and sipping a long-neck. He must have had the same idea.
She eased down beside him and, with her hand on his, guided his bottle to her mouth.
He jerked it back. "No, dammit, you're too young."
"Lucy has one."
"Not if I catch her." He glanced over at her mutinous face. "You can get into all kinds of trouble that way, Molly."
She turned her head to look away. "You think I'm a little girl."
He took a long drag on his cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke high into the air. "No, Molly," he said with more vehemence than she expected. "I don't think you're a little girl." He took a slow pull on his bottle and licked his lips. "You're a lovely young woman. Smart. With a future." His gaze settled on her, gentle as the moonlight. "I'm not what your momma has planned for you, honey."
"Look at me, Charlie," she answered with a laugh. "I'm the image of my father. I faced the truth a long time ago." She shook her wild red head sadly. "I'm not what my momma planned, period. I'll do what I want with my life."
A slow tune, all throbbing guitars and moaning fiddles, drifted through the screens on the back of the house. Molly's heart ached in answer. "Dance with me, Charlie," she whispered.
He looked at her with his teasing half smile, more in self defense than anything, but she couldn't know that. "You've learned how, then?"
That cut. She stood abruptly and turned to go back inside, but he grabbed her wrist He set his bottle on the step and ground his cigarette out on the heel of his boot, then rose to face her, all teasing gone from his expression. "Be careful what you ask for, honey. Sometimes you just might get it." He slid his hands around her, hooking his thumbs in the pockets of her jeans, spreading his fingers over her bottom. "Kick your shoes off, Molly."
He never took his eyes from hers as she did what she was told. She doubled her arms around his neck and balanced herself on the tops of his boots, her toes gripping. Unafraid and unembarrassed, she didn't pull away this time when he settled himself in the notch at the top of her thighs. Instead, she rocked to him, eliciting a deep-throated groan that vibrated from his chest into hers. Their position raised her enough so that he only needed to tilt his head a little to dip his tongue into her mouth, open and waiting for him.
She lost herself in the taste and scent and feel of him. The lean, hard muscles shifting under her hands and against the softness of her breasts. The masculine flavors of tobacco and beer mingling with the salty tang that was distinctly Charlie. The sultry, arousing smell of sweat on hot skin. In his arms she lost all sense of time and place and propriety.
As if from far away, she became aware of his hand working its way under her shirt, fumbling with her bra, sliding around to her breast. His fingers, calloused and stealthy as a whisper, stroked her nipple. She twisted one hand in the neckline of his T-shirt, combed the fingers of the other through the long, thick hair at his nape and thrust herself against him. Barely moving, they swayed in time to the music and made love with their mouths, Molly telling him as clearly as her young heart could, just what she would do for him, with him, if only he would ask.
But he didn't. Not that night.
And slowly Molly drifted back to the present to find his hands under her shirt, her bra hanging loose, useless, his palms cradling her breasts, his thumbs teasing her nipples to pouting, begging peaks. His tongue trailed a hot path along her neck, teeth nibbling, lips suckling their way to her swollen, exquisitely sensitive mouth.
He nudged himself against her, his thick, hard shaft clearly delineated through the soft denim of his jeans, and she realized that hers were already undone, the zipper parting even more as he pushed his hand into them, slipping his fingers into her panties.
She slammed back to reality with a vengeance. "Oh, no, Charlie! We can't!" She pushed at him frantically, trying to dislodge the hands that seemed to be everywhere.
He was too far gone to heed her. "It's okay, honey," he muttered into her ear, his breath hot against her skin. "Shhh. I can make it good for you, I swear."
"Charlie! We can't!" She shoved him hard and he released her, standing back, his breathing labored and deep.
He stared into her distraught face and her words registered at last. Not "Charlie, I don't want to." Not "Charlie, I don't feel like it." But "Charlie, we can't!" And he thought somewhere, for certain, the gods must be laughing at him.
All the tumblers to this lock clicked into place. Her heightened concern with privacy while she changed her clothes. Her lack of enthusiasm for his gift. Her uneasiness when he suggested she wear it to bed. And her words, "Charlie, we can't." He looked at her stricken expression and saw his plans for this one damn night going up in the smoke that surely must be coming out his ears.
"Margaret Mary," he was barely able to get out "Are you on the rag?"
She paled, then reddened and focused her gaze in the vicinity of his Adam's apple. "Charlie, that is so vulgar."
He raised imploring eyes heavenward. God, that was it. He's dying here, and she's worried about vulgar? "Are you?"
She ran her tongue over her lips and spoke to his throat. "I have my—" she swallowed hard "—period, yes."
He raked his fingers through his hair and tried to get a grip on himself. He wasn't some kind of raving animal. He was a faithful husband. A frustrated faithful husband. "I'm sorry, Charlie."
She looked so distressed. He wanted to take her in his arms, to soothe her. That wouldn't be a good idea. He wished she'd get her clothes back together, but he wasn't going to help her with that, either.
As if she read his thoughts, she worked at the zipper on her jeans and made that awkward-armed move women did when they tried to hook up their bras. He had to look away.
"I don't know what came over me, Charlie," he heard her say, and glanced back to see her shaking the curls that tumbled in beguiling disarray. "I just forgot." She shrugged and he had to look away again.
Maybe the situation wasn't as hopeless as he thought. If she'd been aroused enough to forget herself for a minute there. Maybe... "What are we talking about, here, honey? Is this just the beginning? Or...or, maybe...you know." He made a vague gesture with his hand. "The...uh...the end?" He'd almost said tail end, but caught himself. For sure, that'd be vulgar.
Didn't matter. She was looking at him like he'd suggested eating rattlesnake. "Are you saying it wouldn't make any difference?'' she asked in a disbelieving tone.
It was hopeless. He'd never been able to coax a woman past this particular hang-up. To tell the truth, he'd never really put much effort into it before. But she had her hand spread over her chest like she did when she was greatly appalled about something. He'd just try to get out of this with as much dignity as he could muster.
He settled his hands on her shoulders and inhaled deeply. "I'm gonna take a shower, Molly. A cold one. And you're not invited this time." He gave her shoulders a firm squeeze and released her, then added with a wink and a forc
ed smile as he moved away, "I'd appreciate it if you didn't wear that teddy to bed tonight."
Molly rummaged through the bottom drawer of her dresser and dug out the gown she'd sworn she'd never wear. The women at the office had been kind to give it to her and she appreciated their thoughtfulness, but something like this would never have called her name.
She shook out the voluminous folds and laid the nightgown on the bed. White and ruffled about summed it up. Deeply ruffled around the neckline, ruffled long sleeves, a huge flounce—that was the only word to describe it—at the hem. It was ghastly. Perfect for tonight.
She quickly shed her clothes and pulled the garment over her head, almost suffocating in the yards of fabric before she got her face and hands through the openings. She glanced at her image in the mirror above the dresser. Better, but the hair was still a problem. She scraped it back with a comb and wove it into a braid tight enough to make her eyes slant.
Just in time. She heard Charlie emerging from the bathroom. He stood gape-jawed as she moved to go past him and take her turn. From the corner of her eye she stole a glimpse of the clothing he held ready to stash in the hamper. His underwear and the T-shirt he'd worn. Evidently he'd just slipped his jeans back on to rejoin her before shucking them entirely and getting into bed.
Oh, my… He was going to sleep in nothing tonight. Like he always had. The thought left her strangely breathless.
Her own nighttime preparations took just a few minutes. When she returned to the bedroom, Charlie was stretched out on the unmade bed, bare feet crossed at the ankles, hands folded behind his head. He still wore the jeans.
"Where'd you get that?" He asked the question as if her gown were the only thing on his mind since she'd left the room. Probably, it had been.
She smoothed her hands over the copious folds. "The ladies I worked with gave it to me as a wedding present."
"Did they think you were Scarlett O'Hara?"
She laughed. "It's not my taste exactly, but they meant well." She fingered the fabric. "I guess it's supposed to be bridal."
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