Sweet Mercy

by Jean Brashear

  “No.” He grasped her arm, and both of them froze. “I have to go. Nursery work starts with the sun.”

  “Oh. Of course.” Her fingers hovered above the napkins she’d carefully stacked.

  “They’re yours.” He rose. Stood beside her. Smelled her hair, just a whiff of spice and roses past the smoke and beer scents in the air.

  A quiver threaded through her frame. She lifted her gaze to his. “I—Thank you.” She gathered them up carefully. “I can’t imagine what that would be like,” she said as she pressed them gently between her palms. “To have such an amazing talent. You take my breath away,” she said as she turned toward the bar.

  That makes two of us.

  When she was almost out of hearing, he stirred himself to speak. “If you—” He cleared his throat. “If you’d care to drop by tomorrow and—” He lifted his palms. “I don’t know, supervise or something—”

  “I…” Her smile was hesitant, but even that much eased something inside him. “I might.”

  He watched her go and had the thought that he’d been sketching her all evening, but he still hadn’t managed to capture the mystery that was Jezebel Hart.

  But a part of him wanted it.

  Too damn much.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  JEZEBEL’S PHONE rang the next morning. “Hello?”

  “Ms. Hart, this is assistant D.A. Gary Lansing.”

  Her stomach clenched. “Yes?”

  “We have a trial date in the Bollinger case.”

  “When?” She should be happy to get it over with, but she wasn’t ready to face Vegas again. “Jury selection begins Monday.” “What will that mean for me?”

  “Forming a jury shouldn’t require but a few days at most. We’d like you to go ahead and travel to Vegas right away.”

  Dread crawled up her spine; she wished to be done with Vegas and her life there. “I really can’t be gone for more than the absolute minimum time required for my testimony, Mr. Lansing. I have a business to run.” And even if I didn’t, I have no desire to be anywhere near Russ Bollinger or his goons.

  “Our office can’t afford last-minute tickets, Ms. Hart. Can’t you find someone to take over for you?”

  Darrell could handle things if necessary; that wasn’t the point. “Not really.”

  “I see.” His voice said otherwise.

  If only she could afford to pay her own way.

  If only she didn’t have to go.

  “Mr. Lansing, are you certain my testimony is crucial?”

  “Ms. Hart, we can compel you to show up.”

  If Gamble accepted her purchase offer on the cottage, she couldn’t spare the funds for a full-fare ticket, but she longed to be done with her past.

  “I’ll manage, Mr. Lansing. Just let me know when I have to be there.” She steadied her voice with effort. “You can count on me.”

  “You’d be safer in our protection, Ms. Hart.”

  She was skeptical. Russ Bollinger was no one to fool with. Still, he had no idea where she was. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Stay available, Ms. Hart.” The threat was clear.

  “I’ll do my duty, Mr. Lansing.” No matter how much she didn’t like it.

  “Very well. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  Jezebel dropped the phone into the cradle and rubbed that hand on her jeans as if to scrub off the taint of her past.

  * * *

  GAMBLE PAUSED at the back door of the cottage and steeled himself, then stepped inside and crossed the kitchen to place the soft drinks inside the refrigerator. Checked to see if he should make ice, but the trays were full. He cracked two open and dumped them into the bin, then refilled them. Tried not to remember that he’d promised Charlotte an icemaker one day, but that day—that money—had never materialized.

  He forced the thought away and focused on the hours ahead of him. He wasn’t sure if the utilities had remained on or someone in his family had had them reinstated, but he was grateful. Spring in East Texas wasn’t gentle. A cold drink would be welcome before the afternoon was gone.

  He wondered if Jezebel was a Coke or Pepsi girl. He’d bought both and felt like a thorough fool for doing it.

  Gratefully, he escaped the house and made his way toward the shed of garden tools he assumed were still there. On the route past the garage, he glanced at the door and stutter-stepped just a little. He hadn’t entered his studio yet. He wasn’t ready.

  But he remembered the feel of the pencil in his hand, sketching last night, and knew that for a lie. An urge to hold a brush, to mix pigment and oil, was rising within him. Emerald-green and tumbling black curls. Bronze against the white velvet of her skin—

  He recoiled from the doorknob as if an electrical shock had passed through him. He could not paint Jezebel in this place so intimately entwined with Charlotte.

  Not until he fulfilled his promise to the woman he’d loved more than life.

  And he was nowhere near up for that.

  He stalked to the shed and grabbed as many tools as he could carry.

  And walked around the other side of the house to begin.

  * * *

  JEZEBEL DROVE TOWARD the cottage, reminding herself not to get her hopes up just because he’d invited her. She was dressed to help, not supervise; another set of hands would mean he’d finish that much sooner. If being in this place was so hard for him, then she would do her best to speed his progress. She’d gone one step further and made food, almost like a picnic, though calling it one seemed inappropriate.

  Things had eased between them last night, but he was obviously still suffering.

  Did you understand, Charlotte Smith, what you had? She sighed and rested her head on one hand. Since she was orphaned, no one had felt a tenth of that for her; doubtful anyone ever would.

  But there were times you just had to stand back and admire something beautiful, like a perfect rose or a glorious sunset—or a perfect love—and appreciate it without trying to make it yours. Or wishing for more than the simple pleasure of that moment. The knowledge that such miracles existed.

  Miracles, though, carried a cost. From the stories she’d heard and from observing his reactions, Gamble Smith had given himself to his wife so completely that when he lost her, he lost himself. She’d never experienced such suffering; the thought of a bond that strong both compelled and terrified her.

  The turnoff appeared ahead. She straightened and made it, resolutely ignoring the other thread running through her mind: those drawings, one in particular, and the hours of the night she’d spent poring over them, sifting for meaning as a treasure hunter combs beach sand.

  Nonsense. He’s an artist. He draws because it’s what he does.

  But so many. Of her. And the invitation to come here…

  Don’t read anything into it, Jez. Two more days and both your worlds could be blown to smithereens if that test is positive.

  That was the cold blast of water that could rid her of any illusions about sketches or filmy dresses or men who were entombed in a castle of grief.

  She nearly turned around then, before he could spot her driving up.

  Then, she realized, it was too late. He stood not ten yards away, sweaty and so gorgeous your tongue could fall out of your mouth, clearing tangled vines from the fence.

  And clearly no more sure of himself than she was, based on the discomfort on his face.

  She drew a deep breath for courage and emerged. “Hi.”

  He was silent, his gaze troubled.

  She was off-stride herself, no idea what to say to him, how to act. If she should stay or go.

  Her history said, flee. Forget this place, this man and all his troubles. His too-potent magnetism.

  But she was a woman of her word; she’d offered to help, and help she would. “I, uh, I’ll just put this on the porch.” She took one step, then another until she squeezed past him through the narrow gate opening, cooler in hand.

  She’d never finished high school, but she read voracio
usly. Somewhere she’d learned about pheromones and their deadly allure. The way two people could be drawn into each other’s orbit because chemically they clicked, beyond the bounds of logic or propriety or sense.

  Maybe Gamble’s receptors weren’t operational.

  Unfortunately, hers were on overload.

  Hot, sweaty, gorgeous. Talented. Lonely. Strong, yet made vulnerable by an ability to love that staggered her…Gamble Smith packed quite a punch, like it or not.

  Then his gaze rose to hers, a hot flame of blue, quickly smothered.

  But not before her stomach fluttered in response.

  “You came.” His voice, in contrast, was leaden.

  “You invited me.” Her jaw stiffened. “I’m here to help, but if you’d rather I go, I’ll just leave this food.” “You cooked for me?”

  She already felt enough the idiot. “You don’t eat?”

  Behind her, silence. She clenched her fingers on the handle of the cooler.

  Then he chuckled. Faint, rusty, yes…but she’d heard it.

  When she faced him, chagrin not derision greeted her.

  He rubbed one hand on the back of his neck. “I wouldn’t blame you,” he said, nodding toward her white-knuckled grip. “Look—I’m not much good with women.” He shook his head. “Not that great with people in general.”

  “Huh. Coulda fooled me.”

  His head jerked up, a retort forming.

  She found a smile.

  His answering one was rueful. “My brothers got all the charm in the family. Lily’s a spitfire, and I always had…never mind.”

  Not hard to complete his sentence. “Charlotte must have been amazing.”

  “She was.” Those gorgeous eyes sharpened on her. “I’m supposed to get over her. Put her behind me.”

  “You will when you’re ready.”

  He stiffened. “I’ll never forget her.”

  “I didn’t say you should. I’d like to think that if anyone ever loved me that way, he’d always keep a part of me within him.”

  “I don’t have the right,” she thought he murmured, gazing off into the distance.

  “Why not?”

  He didn’t answer, his concentration elsewhere.

  Jezebel pressed her lips together and waited. The day’s heat bore down; her shirt stuck to her back. In the still air, she heard the buzzing of bees, a bird’s warble. She closed her eyes and found herself, for once, caught in a moment where she could simply…breathe. Despite the presence of a man she found both attractive and maddening, beyond the grasp of all her worries, Jezebel felt an overwhelming sense of peace.

  “She used to say that this was as close to heaven as she could imagine.”

  Jezebel’s eyes popped open, to see his unguarded. “It’s incredibly beautiful. How did you find it?”

  “My folks hoped to build a house here one day, but Dad died before they got the chance. My mom couldn’t keep up the payments with four kids to raise, so she had to sell. It came on the market when I was in college, waiting for Charlotte to graduate high school. I already knew I wasn’t going to finish. I went away the first year as part of a bargain I made with Mom. She said that if what Charlotte and I had was the real thing, it would survive my absence.”

  “Obviously, it did.”

  He smiled ruefully. “Absence is too strong a word. I was home every weekend, and we were on the phone each night we were apart.”

  Jezebel laughed.

  “Anyway, I decided when this place became available that I had a better use for the money I’d saved for college. I offered it as a down payment for Mom first, since it had been her and Dad’s dream, but she said she couldn’t bear to leave the last place she’d lived in with him.”

  “Your family is so amazing.” Jezebel didn’t even attempt to keep the envy from her voice. “I would have given anything for that kind of devotion.”

  “Where’s your family?”

  “I don’t have one.” She jutted her jaw, daring him to delve deeper.

  “I’m sorry hear that.” His eyebrows rose, and he surprised her. “But I think you’re wrong.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re as devoted to Skeeter as any granddaughter could be. Darrell has appointed himself your big brother.” His grin was rueful. “I can’t decide if Louie and Chappy are the crazy uncles most people hide in the closet or a couple of overage bickering siblings.”

  She had to laugh, even as she marveled at how right he was. And unbent a little. “I grew up in foster homes, and I always swore that one day I’d have a real house, with a white picket fence and babies and puppies and kittens.”

  He grimaced. “And I’m standing in the way of that.”

  “It’s okay, Gamble.” She clasped his arm, and felt a visceral thrill. Quickly, she withdrew. “I can’t imagine how I’d react, in your shoes.”

  He stared at her for a moment in which she had the sense that he’d experienced the shock, too. His gaze honed in on her with a flicker of hunger. One hand lifted as if he might touch her, and longing rose within her for him to do exactly that. Touch me, Gamble. Let me touch you.

  She closed her eyes against the temptation, and as soft as the caress of a summer morning breeze, his fingers brushed her hair. Trailed down the braid from which curls were already escaping. Drifted over the swell of her breast and electrified her every nerve ending. A small sigh escaped her.

  The contact abruptly ceased. She braved a glimpse of his features, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  Heat, fading rapidly into confusion. Tumult.

  He stepped away. “I have work to do.”

  It isn’t wrong for you to live, she yearned to tell him, but didn’t. He was like an animal that had been whipped, too spooked for easy trust.

  So she put the cooler down. “I have gloves in the car,” she said as neutrally as she could manage. “Shall I begin on the roses? I read up on pruning them last night. It’s nearly too late, but it can still be done.”

  “Why would you—” He clamped his mouth shut.

  “The sooner you’re finished, the quicker you can leave Three Pines,” she reminded him. “And I’m not assuming anything about what will happen then.”

  “I don’t understand you.” He didn’t wait for an explanation, though, and started down the steps.

  Me, either, she thought.

  * * *

  HER HAIR WAS THICK and silken, a mass of waves straining to break from their bonds. Gamble clenched his hand against the feel of it, so alive and beckoning. Set me loose. Free me.

  The call was repeated inside his chest, echoed in his head, a lure he had to ignore, just as he must disregard everything else about Jezebel Hart that enticed him.

  If he’d been in New York, he could have made her one in a string of forgettable encounters, a simple satisfying of a body’s needs in a vain attempt to soothe a restless heart that was weary and sick to death of the constant struggle.

  But he wasn’t in New York. Their paths would cross again and again in this tiny town.

  And he’d already made a futile effort to put her out of his mind.

  Their night together rushed back in, so vivid that he stumbled as he neared the tangle of vines he’d been trimming when she’d arrived. The protective barriers he’d erected crumbled, and he was suddenly right back there with her, lost in the curvaceous body, the generous heart, the teasing eyes that transformed a search for escape from relentless grief into an oasis where he found not only succor for his body but passion and…fun. He’d forgotten about fun. Couldn’t recall the last time he’d laughed before a maddening, too-friendly, too-sexy siren had charged into his misery with an invitation and a dare.

  Those stolen moments with her had been etched on his brain like acid, and each time he’d seen her, she’d refused to become ordinary. Invisible.

  Worse even than her powerful allure was the crime he’d tried hardest to erase: she’d cradled his head to her bosom and given him ease. Shoved t
he endless loneliness away.

  Sure, he wanted to crawl right back between her thighs and find out if he’d imagined the glory of her, but even worse, he hungered for that respite, that blessed sense of peace. Of hope that, one day, grief would let him be.

  That was Jezebel’s unforgivable sin, and the reason he had to get the hell out of Dodge as soon as possible. Before he could falter again.

  He had to resist her. Her sin counted as nothing against his own.

  Ruthlessly, he hacked at the vines he’d ripped from the tangle, discovering for himself how they were eating away at the once-white picket fence.

  I always swore that one day I’d have a real house, with a white picket fence and babies and puppies and kittens.

  If any utterance had the power to send him running, that one was it. What an irony that a woman who appeared more suited to a seraglio would have a craving to be June Cleaver.

  He was done with that life, that dream.

  In that instant, he realized that all he had to do was allow Jezebel to have the cottage, and she’d handle everything, fix it all up. He’d never have to come back to this place. Wouldn’t have his heart battered by the memory of his failings.

  He went stock-still and scanned his surroundings. Sought to steel himself against what this homestead meant to him, how much of himself he’d invested in every square inch of earth.

  But the roots of a dead love bound him here still, and he would have to sever them as he’d sliced at these vines. The idea nearly brought him to his knees.

  Then his gaze landed on Jezebel, clasping a rose cane, her head cocked to one side and, he could swear, her mouth moving as if she were talking to the bush. With a slight gnawing of her lower lip, she made the cut and gingerly laid the cane on the ground instead of dropping it.

  Again she repeated the sequence, appearing to be hurt by each cut and murmuring thanks when she finished.

  The gesture should have been ludicrous, but it was oddly moving. If ever he required proof of how she would cherish this place that held pieces of his soul, he had it now.

  Maybe he couldn’t yet sunder his attachment to his home, but he could begin the process. He crossed halfway toward where Jezebel stood but couldn’t manage the rest.