He smiled and leaned back, his face bright with astonishment. "Well, I'll be damned."
His answer disconcerted her, as it usually did. "What?" she asked.
"You've never been in love before, have you?"
She flushed. "So?"
He shook his head and tenderly reached over to brush a windblown strand of hair off her cheek. "So nothing."
His touch sent a shower of sensation over her skin, but she didn't pull back. Instead, her eyes narrowed. "Don't get your hormones in an uproar, buster. I am not a virgin, if that's what you're inferring."
"This has nothing to do with sex."
Her mouth firmed. "I'm not some kind of conquest."
He grinned. "I never said you were. Eat your potato salad."
"If I wanted us to become lovers, we could."
"I know that. Your beer's getting warm."
She struggled for something else to say. "You owe the bucket a dollar."
He reached for his wallet, plucked out a bill, and laid it between them with a raised brow. "Are you going to eat or talk?"
Charly was silent. J.D. Smith was either very sure of himself, or he really wanted to be just friends, she thought. Or was he playing some new game, one she didn't know the rules for?
She bit into her sandwich. "You have one hell of a nerve, Mr. Smith."
He looked thoughtful, then nodded solemnly. "So I've been told. By the way, I think you need to match my dollar."
She threw back her head and laughed.
Charly's laughter never failed to astonish J.D. It never sounded the same twice as she reacted to even the dumbest of his jokes. And he told lots of them over the course of an hour. Even after the sun had set in a brilliant pyrotechnic display, he continued to dredge up some of the worst punch lines he could remember.
"Stick to clowning," Charly told him. "Pantomime, that's the key."
Somehow the knowledge that Charly had never been in love had unleashed something within him, something he didn't quite understand. Over the last week he had explored the limits of his newfound realization about his parents and his prejudice. That's what it had been, he knew. A bias over a lifestyle that he had stubbornly avoided, simply on the basis of how unhappy his father had been. But he wasn't his father.
He thought of the women he had dated over the years. They all seemed like pale copies of an original. He'd been chasing shadows in the midst of colors he'd never seen. Like the sunset before them, Charly had a quality that couldn't be captured. She was the real thing. He loved her. And he'd be a fool to shut himself away from her.
But he couldn't rush her because he knew that there was more to consider than his own revelation. He was afraid. For the first time in his life he was scared to death that he would be rejected. Ever since he could remember, matchmaking mothers had set him up with their daughters, the Smith money a lure they couldn't resist. Charly wasn't impressed by any of it, and he knew that was the first thing that had attracted him to her. Charly didn't give a damn for any of the trappings of wealth.
She was her own person, and he was afraid that she was quite right. She didn't need him at all. Used to the demands of his kooky family, the responsibilities of his inherited business, J. D. Smith didn't know how to be useful to someone who didn't need a keeper. And he certainly didn't enjoy uselessness.
His assault had just taken yet another direction.
"Ready?"
J.D. glanced around the blanket, surprised that everything had been packed away. The chill air signaled to him that it was getting late. He stood and folded the plaid square meticulously. Charly shot him a look and shook It out before refolding it. "What's the matter with you?" she asked. "You kind of phased out there for a while."
"Nothing." He smiled. "What's the lineup for tonight? Movies? A drive down to Big Sur? Mud wrestling?"
She chuckled. "Sorry, nothing like that. Actually. I think I should turn in early. My brother's coming in tomorrow, and he's in a snit."
"What's wrong?"
Her eyes narrowed.
"Oh, come on, Charly, what am I going to do? Write it across the sky?"
"I guess not." She shrugged. "Aaron's in the army. He was supposed to be transferred here to Ft. Ord next month, but the idiot got into a shouting match with his commander and got himself a short tour of Korea instead."
"Not a court-martial?"
"It's probably what he deserves, but no. He's too smart for insubordination. Apparently, he had a company of his own this year—he's an officer—and it had something to do with one of his men. Aaron is ultimately responsible. He wouldn't tell me the whole story, which is typical." She winced. "The only problem is, his wife is pregnant."
J.D. frowned. "I still don't see the problem."
"A short tour is a year, unaccompanied."
Leaving his wife to have the baby alone, J.D. realized. "Does she have any family?"
"Yes, but Aaron is devastated." She lifted the basket, which J.D. took out of her hands. It was a measure of her preoccupation that she made no protest. "Oh, well. It'll work out somehow. I invited her to stay here, but she refused. They're coming for a short visit."
Though he racked his brain, J.D. couldn't think of a single way to help this time, but he vowed not to give up as he led the way to her house.
A girl sat on Charly's doorstep, her shoulders hunched, mascara running down her face. "What in the world?" Charly exclaimed. "Melissa!" Charly strode past him.
"Who?" he asked, picking up his pace.
"One of my best students," she said over her shoulder. "Esteban’s girlfriend!"
They reached the girl at the same time. Melissa's face lit with hope when she saw Charly, but suspicion clouded her expression when J.D. walked up behind her. "Who's that?" she asked.
"He's a friend of mine. Honey, what's wrong? How did you get here? Is someone hurt?"
"I took the bus. I—" Melissa opened her mouth and glanced again at J.D., but before he could leave, she burst into tears. "It's Daddy!" she wailed. "Ms. C, he's totally unreasonable with Esteban! I—I can't go back there."
Charly's arm circled her shoulder. "Honey, are you pregnant?"
"No." Melissa chuckled damply into her arm. "That would solve everything, wouldn't it?"
Charly faced her. "That never solves anything, Melissa. We've talked about that," she said sternly.
The girl's face fell. "I know, it's just—" She hiccupped and stared at J.D. again.
Without glancing at J.D., Charly pushed the door open and steered Melissa inside. "You go clean up your face, honey. I'm going to call your father."
"No!"
"Melissa. We both know he loves you. I’ll lend you a shoulder to lean on. I’ll offer you a refuge. But I will not provide a hiding place, understand?"
Melissa's lip trembled, but she nodded. "Can I stay for a while, though?"
"Well talk, then I’ll take you home, okay? I’ll even come in with you to talk to your father. But ultimately, it's your battle." Charly's face softened. "Go wash up. I'll be right there."
Melissa trailed dejectedly down the hall, and Charly watched her for a moment. "Lord, I'm glad I'm not sixteen anymore."
"It sounds like Romeo and Juliet," J.D. whispered, his throat tight with emotion.
Charly slanted a curious look over her shoulder. "Or West Side Story, huh?"
"Charly, you were perfect with her."
She frowned. "I figured you'd be appalled."
His mouth lifted crookedly. "Don't sell me short. Or yourself." He trailed a finger down her face. "See you later. You have your work cut out for you."
He left her standing on the porch and walked away, determination lengthening his stride. He'd finally found a way to help her, personally, and he wouldn't let it pass.
J.D. turned off all lights but the low lamp beside the sofa, poured a glass of white wine, then shoved a couple of dragons aside on her end table to make room for it. He tuned her stereo away from the hard-rock station to an easy-listening one. wond
ering if she had any candles but dismissing them as overkill. When he was finished, he sat and waited.
Thank heavens Charly had left without locking her door, he thought, but he knew he would have gone in through a window if she hadn't. Some of the pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fit. It had probably been a long time since Charly had had someone to care for her. That, he realized, was the secret. Not sex, not even love, but good, old-fashioned caring. How long had she carried her burdens alone? How long had she played Atlas? The weight of the world could get pretty heavy sometimes, and though he was hardly an expert on relaxation, he would do anything in his power to lighten her load.
His dragon was due for some pampering.
It was nearly midnight when the door finally opened, bringing with it a curl of the mist that usually swirled in from the ocean after dark in the summer. Charly entered and gave a soft exclamation of surprise. "I thought you'd gone!"
Dark circles smudged her eyes, and she moved like an old woman. J.D.'s heart flipped in his chest. No matter how tough his little dragon tried to be, she gave more of herself to those kids than she cared to admit. Not even football practice had drained her the way Melissa's problems had. "I came back," he told her softly, rising to help her slip her jacket off.
"What's all this? Are you finally turning true to form with a seduction?"
"No, Charly." He hung up her jacket, kicking the soccer ball back into the closet absently before closing it. "If you'll notice, there's only one glass." He took her arm and drew her to the sofa, seating her with a small push.
"I don't get it. What's your angle?"
"No angle."
"I thought you said fencing wasn't sneaky."
"It's not. That's your game, not mine." He seated himself beside her, then turned her gently away, but not before he saw her puzzlement. "How's Melissa?"
"She’ll be fine. What are you doing?"
He rubbed her tense neck gently, then used his thumbs to circle the base of her skull. "Helping you unwind a little, that's all."
"I hate elevator music," she murmured, her voice thick with fatigue.
Slowly pressing his chest against her back, he reached past her to hand her the wine. "Drink it," he commanded softly.
She sipped obediently, then stopped and spun to him, slopping a bit of wine over the edge of the glass. Her blue eyes flashed with sudden fury. "Hey, I don't take orders from—"
"Okay, if that's the way you want it." He curved his fingers around her neck and massaged. When he began to draw her to him, her eyes widened, and she turned back. He chuckled. "Chicken," he murmured.
"I'm not a chicken!" She tried to pull away, but he buried his fingers in her hair.
"If you make any sudden moves, you'll be bald."
"Rat," she whispered, but stopped her escape attempts. "I'm only doing this because of your violent tendencies."
"Of course," he crooned. "It has nothing to do with the fact that it feels so good." The tight muscles under his hands began to unwind, and he continued, talking to her in a soothing tone. "It would absolutely kill you to admit that I could do something for you, wouldn't it?"
"I'm doing this against my will," she muttered.
"I know that. I'm holding you captive." Her head rolled slightly to the side. "That's it, honey. Relax. You've had a long day."
His fingers moved to her shoulder blades, his thumbs to her spine. With gentle pressure he rubbed and massaged until her head drooped forward. His manhood surged against his jeans, and he swallowed heavily. His hand trembled. He flattened it, feeling the firm, sensuous curve of muscle beneath her shirt as he circled her back gently. Slowly he freed the material from the waistband of her jeans and slid his hands underneath. Her skin was like velvet. He stroked it, caressed it, his heart beating madly in his chest as he continued his self-imposed torture.
He encountered the strap of her bra, and with a quick twist of his wrist, it snapped open. She gasped and tensed, and he remembered his vow of patience.
Reluctantly, before his hunger overpowered his rationality, J.D. withdrew his hands and stood. Charly turned bewildered eyes to him, eyes smoky with the same desire her body had lit within him. It was all he could do not to return to the couch and press her deep into the cushion, burying himself in her.
"Don't you just want to be friends?" she whispered.
He took her hand in his, kissed her fingertips slowly, and pressed her palm against his chest. Surprise lit her eyes as her splayed fingertips felt the wild rhythm of his heartbeat.
"Does that feel like the heart of a man who just wants to be friends?"
She jerked her hand back as if it had been burned.
He smiled. "Hide your head in the sand all you want, Charly, but we will be lovers."
And with that, he left.
She stared after him In shock. The rapid heartbeat against her fingertips had sent a violent stab of longing through her. And he had misinterpreted it! That noble, stubborn idiot had thought he could just soothe her, rob her of what little inhibition she had left, then leave her wanting more?
She felt anything but soothed, and her contrary streak demanded that she do nothing by his rules. It was time for the offense to take the field.
"We’ll be lovers, all right," she promised. "And sooner than you think."
Seven
J.D. took a cold shower, and when that didn't work to his satisfaction, he took another. Afterward, nearly blue from the water, he poured himself a stiff drink from the sideboard and glared at the plush hotel room as if it were at fault. He irritably adjusted the towel slung low over his hips and flipped on the television. Nothing held his attention. Finally, in desperation, he shoved his glasses on and pulled out his notes for his own project with Rucker.
Thoughts swam between the words and him— Melissa's troubled home life, Hogan's macho reluctance, Esteban's pride. He shook his head. He was getting involved, more thoroughly than he'd imagined he could, and his approach just didn't seem to be enough anymore. David's original proposal made sense, he realized. To break the cycle, something on a bigger scale was needed.
He frowned. Charly had vowed to change his mind. Was this some underhanded plan of hers?
Irritably, he flung the papers onto the table, his glasses close behind. He leaned his head back and rubbed the bridge of his nose. How could he suspect her motives when she'd proven her honesty? Charly just didn't play those kind of games. Her face revealed everything—anger, pride, beauty . . . desire.
With a growl he tossed the towel aside, turned off the light, and climbed into the huge bed.
He shifted, but the bed felt too big, too empty. Moonlight illuminated every square inch of it with depressing clarity, and he considered shutting the blind, but didn't feel like climbing back in alone.
She was in his blood. His skin was fevered with the image of being pressed against Charly, even briefly. The woman would drive him insane until he could prove to her, and ultimately to himself, that she belonged in his life!
A knock at the door brought him bolt upright. It was probably some misdirected bellboy, he guessed. "Wrong room!" he shouted, but whoever it was knocked again, more firmly this time.
Grumbling, he threw his legs over the side of the bed and grabbed the towel. Wrapping it tightly around his hips, he strode to the door and grasped the knob, prepared to throw it open and curse in every language he could think of. But he decided against both actions. The person didn't deserve to be the target of his frustration. "You have the wrong room," he repeated firmly.
"Telegram for Mr. Smith," came a nasal voice.
Frowning, he immediately thought of his mother, of her skydiving, and snatched open the door. There, standing in the dim hall, was Charly, wrapped in a raincoat.
She shook her head and clicked her tongue. "The oldest trick in the book, and you fell for it. Sucker."
"What are you doing here?" His towel slipped, and he made a grab for it.
She chuckled. "Nice legs. May I come in?"
<
br /> "I don't think—"
She ignored his warning and strode past him.
He sighed and closed the door. When he reached for the light, her soft protest stayed his hand, and he eyed her warily. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. What could be wrong. I like this place. All this elegant blue stuff suits you."
"It's not a slum," he couldn't help saying.
Her rich laughter filled the room as she spun to him, her chestnut hair billowing around her. "Hardly."
"If nothing's wrong ..." He trailed off, his overly active libido giving him one possible explanation. But he dismissed that quickly. "Is it raining?"
"Foggy, as usual." She pursed her mouth. "I just wanted to talk to you for a minute."
"Of course." He wiped all emotion from his face, but an inferno raged within. His towel was getting more and more revealing as his instinctive reaction pushed into it. "Would you like a drink?"
"No, thanks. I just wanted to say one thing, then I’ll be on my way. Maybe."
He frowned, puzzled. "What?"
She bit her lip. "About your noble gesture tonight. You know, that 'leave 'em when they're vulnerable' mentality?"
He stiffened. The last thing he needed right now was another of her ego-deflating speeches. "Look, Charly—"
"I just wanted you to know one thing." She cleared her throat, holding his gaze as she undid the top button of her coat. "Nobility stinks."
He swallowed heavily as the next button she opened revealed the curve of a breast. "What?"
"I said"—she moved closer, continuing, inch by inch, to reveal more skin—"nobility stinks."
"You—" The remaining buttons were dismissed as she pushed the coat down her shoulders and let it drop to the floor. Glowing silver in the moonlight, Charly stood tall and proud, her magnificent body completely naked.
A wave of desire nearly knocked him off his feet. He hissed a deep breath through his teeth, his hand clenched white on the towel. Mere feet separated them, but he could not move, entranced by the glorious sight before him. Bathed with light and shadow, her upthrust breasts were tight, the nipples hardened in the cool night air. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders, almost but not touching the peaks. The faint etching of the scar ran along her ribs, paralleling the indentation of her impossibly small waist. Her flat belly flared to rounded hips, and lower dark curls formed a V of shadow above legs that gently tapered into the pool of fabric at her feet.
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