He didn’t make any small talk but started the truck, pulled onto the road, and drove.
He cast a look sideways. “How about we get something cold to drink?”
She should just open her mouth and tell him to stop and let her out. That would be the wisest thing to do. “That would be great,” she said. So much for being wise.
He chuckled that easy laugh of his, and she found herself relaxing, the smooth sound like a sip of warm ambrosia.
“What’s up with women only wanting to talk to me today? I must have lost my charm.”
Oh, don’t be so sure, her brain replied. She had a list of things she wanted to do with him, and none of them involved speech.
They drove in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. St. John drove into the neighboring town and pulled into the parking lot for Honey Dew Donuts. Shannon asked for an iced tea, and he replied with, “Scoot on under the seat so nobody sees you,” as he hopped from the truck.
She remained firmly in place. “Tell me you’re kidding?”
He winked and closed the door.
Once they were on their way again, St. John took them back to Wexford. He skirted the center and drove toward the south end of the town.
Shannon looked at her surroundings and then at him. “Are you taking me home?”
“Relax, I’m not letting you go just yet.”
They neared the development where she lived, and he passed the entrance and drove on for another mile before taking a left onto a dirt road that entered a thickly wooded area. The truck dipped and jostled as it passed over tree roots, dirt ruts, and rocks.
“Where on earth are you taking me?” She held the handle by her head to keep herself from bouncing off the seat. “I’m in no mood for a hike, St. John.”
“You’re no fun,” he said and pulled up to an iron gate.
He hopped out of the cab and unlatched the gate’s padlock. He drove through the opening, got back out, and locked the gate behind them. For another ten minutes, they passed over a road that made the first leg of the journey seem smooth.
Eventually, they emerged into a partially cleared area. Unlike the development she’d earlier spent her time in, only one house stood ready for occupancy. All the other lots were marked with bright orange flags and white placards with black numbers but contained nothing else, save for the trees.
“This is phase two of the development you live in,” St. John said. He drove them to the house and tapped a remote attached to his visor.
To see the top of the four-story structure, she had to crane her neck completely. “Is this the sample, or has someone purchased this behemoth?”
“Yes, on both counts.” He parked in the five-bay garage and grabbed their drinks. After handing them to her, he removed a stadium blanket from behind the back seat. “Come on. I’ll show you around.”
At the door he entered a code and stepped aside for her to enter the house.
They removed their shoes and walked through a kitchen that made the house she’d stopped at a short while ago look like a doll house. When they entered what could only be called a Great-Great-Great Room, she bent her head back to find the ceiling. “What is the owner going to do with this room: install a Ferris wheel?”
“You’d be surprised the ways people fill up the space. What do you fill yours with?”
“Ours is not this big.”
“Almost. People like big houses.”
She wrinkled her nose at his comment. “No offense, St. John, but I don’t like our house.”
He looked at her and feigned pain. “I’m crushed. I built that house.”
“And you did a wonderful job, but your houses are too big. They lack charm.”
He chose a sunny spot by one of the tall windows and spread the blanket on the hardwood floor. “No offense taken, but in my experience, I’ve learned warmth and charm have to come from the people living in the house, not the building itself. A bungalow can feel like a gymnasium if the people living in it don’t like each other. Me,” he continued, “I wouldn’t be caught dead in a house this big.”
Shannon walked inside the fireplace occupying a large portion of the outside wall. “Yet, you build them,” she said, her voice echoing up the chimney.
“I give the people what they want. If it’s not me—”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it already. If not you, then someone else will do it. Blah, blah, blah. That’s a lazy excuse.”
“And we’re off.” St. John settled on the floor and patted the area of the blanket next to him. “Do you think we could forgo the barbs for a while, maybe even be civil to each other? They seem to be managing.” He indicated Sadie and Jasper lying in a patch of sunlight streaming through the French double doors that led onto the deck. Jasper lay on his side with Sadie’s muzzle resting on his rump.
Shannon knelt by St. John’s outstretched legs. “Then it’s agreed,” she said. “We’ll behave is if we’re dogs.” An image of two dogs humping came instantly to mind followed by her and St. John doing it doggy-style. She grabbed her iced tea and sucked on the straw, avoiding his eyes.
“Agreed,” he said and chuckled.
She watched him from under her lashes as he removed his baseball cap. He rested the back of his head against the window frame and closed his eyes, giving her a chance to study him in detail. Not his looks—the details of his face and body were fully embedded in her mind—but the man himself. The guy must be seriously damaged if all three of his wives had run to the arms of other men. Based on how he’d behaved before he left her last night she could see why. She should be fleeing instead of sitting in a stranger’s house with him. Yet, here she was, not budging an inch, feeling safer than she’d experienced in her entire adult life.
Without prompting, St. John began to speak. “I grew up in a place that was under eight hundred square feet. It was a hip-roof style house, and my half-brother and I shared the second-floor bedroom. I could fit fifty of that house in the ones I build, but to me, it was the grandest home in Wexford, absolutely perfect in every way. If I could, I would build houses where families would be forced to be together instead of spending time in rooms crammed with stuff they don’t need.”
“But you said even small houses can feel empty.”
“They can,” he replied, opening his eyes. “But it’s a lot harder to hide. Sometimes that’s all it takes, to force people to look at each other.” A sadness drew over his face. “Then again, it doesn’t always work.”
She didn’t know what to say, so she said nothing. He was a complex man, and she wasn’t sure she’d ever figure him out.
The clouds blew away, and his face brightened. “If you hired me to build a house for you, what would you want?”
The house from her vision came to mind, as did his truck in the driveway. They weren’t on the porch any longer, though. They were inside, in front of a crackling fire. Her, Chad, and him. A puzzle lay in pieces on the floor, the two dogs snoring by the hearth.
He tapped on her leg. “Where’d you go?”
“I…” She removed her own hat and shook out her hair. “Sorry, I’m operating on very little sleep. Let’s see, my house. Well, I want it small.”
“Small’s relative,” he said. “I work in square footage.”
“I don’t know the square feet; now let me finish. The roof kind of bends where the second story begins. It’s not a big second story. As I said, the house is small. Cozy. There’s a porch along the length of the front.” More of the house’s characteristics came to her as she spoke. Details that weren’t in her vision, but she knew just the same. Her cheeks warmed as she continued. “The living room has a brick fireplace, and a curved staircase leads up to the two rooms on the second floor. One room faces the front, and the other looks out over a pond in back. The house in on a hill, so the view is magnificent. Oh, and there’s a copper beech tree in the front yard, and there’s a flower garden. Surrounding the lot are trees, lots and lots of trees. Pines, hemlocks, oaks, birch. A whole
forest of trees. And there’s an old wooden swing hanging from this massive oak tree in the side yard, and down by the pond is a bench where’d I sit and feed the ducks.” She finished with, “I guess I described more than the house,” and looked at him.
He was sitting forward, staring at her.
“What’s wrong?”
“You’re teasing me, right?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
He removed a pen from his shirt pocket and began drawing on his palm. “You just described the house I grew up in.”
Chapter 21
“The best way to find out if you can trust somebody is to trust them.”
Ernest Hemingway
The pen glided over the calloused skin of St. John’s hand. An image took form, and soon Shannon was viewing a miniature ink drawing of her quaint house, complete with trees and smoke coiling from the chimney.
“That’s my house,” she said.
St. John tapped his hand with the pen. “No, this is my house, including every detail you mentioned, down to the copper beech in the front yard and the ducks in the pond. How do you know this house?”
She followed the blue ink lines with her fingertip. “It’s a house that came to me the other night.”
“Came to you?”
“In a vision. It’s silly. Never mind. This is just a coincidence.”
He took hold of her hand and joined their palms. The drawing of the house burned against her skin. Their fingers merged. “Being a witch, do you really believe that?” he said.
“At this point, St. John, it’s hard to know what to believe.” She pulled away because his touch was shutting down her brain and she wanted to tell him what she’d figured out. “I have something I want to tell you.”
“Which I’ll listen to after I’ve had my say.”
“Why do you get to go first?”
“My house, my rules.”
“This isn’t your house. You said you sold it.”
“If I built the house, my rules.”
“Yeah, you and your rules.” She lifted her iced tea. “I’m making a list too, you know?”
“And I’ll be willing to hear them as soon as you let me finish.”
“Fine, go.” She started sucking on the straw.
He took the cup from her hands and set it aside. “I behaved like a jerk last night, and I’m sorry.”
“You’re doing it again.”
“I know, I’m apologizing when I haven’t been given a reason to; got it. Let me finish, and I promise I’ll listen to you. I don’t know what came over me last night; I was an ass, and I’m sorry.”
“For which time?” She leaned past him and reclaimed her cup.
“What?”
“You said a few nasty things, so I’m wondering which one you’re sorry for.”
“Everything. How’s that?” He removed the cup and placed it behind his back. “My question is, do you hate me?”
“May I have my iced tea?”
He lifted her hand to his lips and placed a lingering kiss on the inside of her wrist. “Answer me first.”
“I don’t hate; it’s a waste of energy. I do, however, loathe. Now may I have my tea?”
He kissed the middle of her palm. “Do you loathe me?”
She closed the remaining distance between them and straddled his lap. “Yes,” she said as she lifted her T-shirt over her head. She reached behind her back and unhooked her bra. By leaning forward, she provided easy reach to her breasts. “I loathe you,” she murmured. She loathed him so frigging much she couldn't stand to be away from him.
“Good.” He slowly caressed her breasts, stopping to tease her nipples as his fingers passed by, and then he leaned forward, his breath a furnace against her skin. “Because I loathe myself too.” He ran his tongue over each taut nipple.
She moved her hips, rubbing her crotch on the zipper of his jeans as he nipped and sucked. Arching her head back, she increased her speed.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” He swept her onto her back. “Close your eyes, please.”
She listened as he removed an ice cube from one of the cups and shook when the frigid surface touched her. He trailed the cube over her skin: neck, collarbone, between her breasts, her nipples, her belly, and under the waistband of her shorts. When the ice had fully melted, she was as much a puddle as the trails of water cooling on her body.
He pulled on the waistband of her shorts. Next to go were her panties, and then his mouth was at her ear. “Touch yourself. Please.”
Damn straight she’d touch herself. No man had ever asked her to do that, but she’d fantasized about it all the same. She widened her legs and gasped, her hand shaking.
He cupped her butt cheeks and lifted her hips. “Here, I’ll help.” His tongue moved past her finger and entered her. She squeezed her eyes, savoring the waves of pleasure she was riding on. He licked, and the floor tilted; he sucked, and the floor swayed; he bit, and the floor spun; he sucked again, and she cried out his name.
When her legs stopped shaking, he consumed her again, sending her spiraling through a second maelstrom of pleasure.
She lay spent with barely enough energy to lift her hand and twirl the strand of dirty blond hair hanging over her. “Hi,” she said, smiling up into his blue eyes.
He grinned down at her. “Hi. Ready for more?”
“Yes, please.”
“Good.”
It amused her he had a condom ready. He’d done the same thing last night, like he was some mystic condom-dispensing machine.
She rose up on her elbows. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?” he asked, his attention on the matter at hand.
“Make condoms appear out of thin air.”
“Ah, that.” His pirate grin appeared. “It’s a secret.”
He lifted her legs and draped them over his arms. Then he bent her knees toward her shoulder. His steady movements were having an amazing effect on her, and she cried out “Don’t—”
“What is it?” He stopped and pulled out, panic flooding his features. “Are you okay?”
All she could do was laugh, which she did, uncontrollably.
“What’s so funny?”
“I was going to say ‘Don’t stop.’”
She laughed again, and he joined her.
“I think we’ve killed the mood,” he said and lay next to her.
“Oh, don’t be such a Debby Downer.” She reached into a long, luxurious stretch and stroked him. When he was back to full power, she climbed on top of him. “See, it’s like magic.”
“You are a beautiful witch,” he said, pulling her face down to kiss her.
St. John lay on his side, his hand supporting his head. “What did you want to tell me?”
“How come you’re dressed, and I’m naked?” she asked.
“My house, my rules.”
“Cute.”
“I want you to take note that I didn’t forget you wanted to talk to me. What’s on your mind?”
She twisted and reached for her clothes, but he yanked them away. “What part of ‘my house, my rules,’ are you having trouble with?”
She squirmed and giggled. “Rules are meant to be broken.” She jumped to her feet and walked to the opposite side of the room.
“Not mine.”
He offered the grin she’d come to expect whenever he seemed to be thinking about being mischievous.
“Stop doing that,” she said.
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like that.”
“And how am I looking at you?”
“Like you’re a wolf and I’m dinner.”
He rolled onto his back and released a groan. “Is this better? What do we need to talk about?” He sat up and reclaimed his earlier position of leaning against the window sill, then tossed ice cubes from his coffee to the dogs. “I’m listening,” he said, glancing her way.
She refused to give in to the sexy way his brow was furrowed under that damn piece of hair. Real
ly, what was she doing wanting to talk when he was willing to do so many other things?
“Seriously, it’s unfair you’re completely dressed. At least take off a sock or something.”
“A sock? Okay, I have an idea.” Standing, he offered a raised eyebrow and retrieved a thin packet from his jeans back pocket. Placing it between his teeth, he then removed his socks, shirt, and everything else, his erection ready for action, and sauntered her way. When he arrived at her end of the room, he scooped his hand behind her head, pressed his face in her hair, and inhaled slowly. “God, I love the smell of you.”
“Stop.” She moved away. “I have things I need to say, and I can’t say them with your tongue in my ear.”
“I could put something else in your mouth.” He stepped her way, and she shifted to the right, but he managed to catch her.
“St. John, this is important, and you’re not listening.” She wiggled to get free, but the more she fought, the more restrictive his hold became. She gave up fighting, which truthfully hadn’t been much of an effort, and allowed him to run his hands over the front of her body. His fingers pressed into her crotch. “I do want to hear what you have to say, but how do we know if we’ll ever get this chance again? Why waste being alone by talking?”
“Fine,” she exhaled. “Let’s skip the talking.”
He laughed and released her. “And here I thought what you had to say was important.”
“You’re a bastard.” She bent and grabbed her clothes.
“So I’ve been told. Here, look…” He swiped her shirt from her hands and carried it with him as he repositioned himself on the opposite side of the room. “How’s this?” he shouted, resting against the wall. “You’ll have to speak up, though.”
She hid her snicker under her breath at the ridiculous way she was acting. She should just screw him again and go home; talking was for wimps.
“I can’t hear you,” he called out. “Did you say something?”
Breaking the Rules Page 14