“Your four regulars are fascinated by the new arrival. They’re congregated at the fence, watching him.”
“They’ll accommodate. Unless he charges through the fence at them. Or goes over, God forbid. Samson is big enough to make that kind of jump, if it occurs to him.”
But the stallion stayed where he was during dinner, and while she and Adam cleaned up in a companionable silence.
“Having help with the chores is really nice,” she told him as they finished. “I probably should have worked in a therapy session over the dishes, though. You’re not making many appointments these days.”
“Just being with you is therapy.” He folded the last dish towel and came to lean against the counter where she stood. “I haven’t s-seen the world the s-same way s-since I m-met you. You’re a woman in a m-million, Phoebe M-Moss.”
The wine had softened her. The tone of his voice melted her. Without thinking, she twined her arms around Adam’s shoulders. His hands came to her waist, and the lightest pressure of her hold bent his head. Then she kissed him.
Nothing like it had ever happened to him before. The warmth, the generosity with which Phoebe gave herself was beyond any experience Adam could claim. He tightened his hold, let Phoebe’s kisses take him deeper into a whirlpool he knew he could drown in. Wanted to drown in. Her breasts yielded against his chest as she moved closer, close enough that he could feel her heart pounding over his own. Her fingers played in his hair, slipped under his shirt collar to wander over the skin of his shoulders, the hollow of his throat, and he was dying with the need to feel her touch on every inch of his skin. Every single inch.
He moved his hands, all too aware of the curves, the hollows of her body. His palm shaped her waist, the arch of her back and the muscles in her arm, where he found warm, bare skin. He hadn’t thought his heart could beat any faster…until he slipped the other hand underneath her shirt to encounter the beautiful flesh over her strong and supple spine. Shoulder blades, ribs, all sheathed with a velvety softeness that was Phoebe’s skin. His knuckles brushed the underside of her breast, and they both gasped.
“Adam.” Her whisper was the wind rustling the leaves of the trees, mysterious, irresistible. “Don’t leave tonight. Stay and make love to me.”
An invitation to paradise. Who else but Phoebe could offer him heaven with such simple generosity? And what could he offer her?
His body aching to the bone, Adam drew back. Away. “I…” God, this was hard to say. “I think I’d b-b-better leave.”
She closed the distance he’d opened, placed her hands on his chest and stared up at him. “Please, Adam. You won’t be taking advantage. I know what I’m doing. I want this. With you.”
He tried to smile. “I want it, too. B-but…” A deep breath didn’t help. “B-b-but n-not to-n-night.” Closing her hands inside his, he kissed her fingertips, then let go quickly and left before she could say anything else. Because another word might convince him to stay.
Fist pounding on the steering wheel, he made the drive home without thinking beyond the next traffic signal. He walked into the house and threw his keys on the kitchen counter, ignored the flashing light on the answering machine, and went directly to his bedroom, where thoughts of Phoebe pounced like a cat keeping watch outside the mouse’s hole.
She had offered herself without reservation. And he’d turned her down without explanation. Maybe he should write a letter, set out the reasons he hadn’t…couldn’t?…accept what she wanted to give him. What he so desperately wanted, what he dreamed about night after night, woke up sweating over time and time again. At least he wouldn’t stutter in writing.
Stripping off his shirt and jeans, he thought about that hypothetical letter. Dear Phoebe, it would say. I’d like nothing better than to lay you down on cool, smooth sheets and drive my body into yours until neither of us could think. Or even breathe.
Only one problem with that scenario, sweet Phoebe. I’ve never been with a woman before. And while I’m used to fumbling with words, I couldn’t stand to fumble with you.
He threw himself down on the bed and buried his face in the pillow.
Love, Adam.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
PHOEBE ARRIVED LATE FOR the weekly planning breakfast with Adam and Tommy—understandable she thought, since she’d driven home from a campaign dinner at midnight last night and awakened with what was beginning to feel like the flu. Both men stood as she came around the corner of the booth, and Adam stepped out to let her slide in beside him. That was about as close as they got to each other these days.
“Did you see this?” Tommy waved a newspaper in front of her nose. “Did you see it?”
She squinted her eyes. “I’m not seeing much of anything this morning.” Three sneezes and a cough later, she looked up out of her handkerchief. “What is it?”
Abby set a mug of hot tea in front of her. “This’ll help. I put honey in it.”
“Oh, thank you.” Wrapping her hands around the mug, she breathed in the fragrance. “Wonderful.”
Adam put a cool hand on her forehead. “You’re sick. You should have stayed home.”
“Work,” she murmured, and sipped the tea. His shoulder brushed hers, his hip and thigh aligned with her leg. The contact made her breathless, and miserable. More miserable.
“This,” Tommy exclaimed, “is an article on Kellie Tate. Her childhood, her education, her family. Her children, her charity work—did you know she volunteers at the hospital in the children’s ward? And her hobbies—golf, tennis, horses.”
Phoebe took another sip to ease her throat. “Sounds nice.” She knew about Kellie Tate and her dubious concern for her horses. Samson still thundered around the lower pasture most of the day, still refused to trust a human hand. Getting him checked over by the vet had been a life-threatening experience for all of them.
“You know what comes next? An article on you, of course.”
“S-so?” Adam took the paper and opened the sheet flat. “That’s not a b-bad thing. Phoebe has a lot of appeal for the v-voters.”
“Sam Pettit told me she was going to Atlanta to do research. Anything she found out could show up in that article. So I need to know the possibilities. What kind of dirt can she dig up on you, Phoebe?”
“I—”
Adam set his mug down with a clank. “You’re out of line, C-Crawford. The p-presumption that Phoebe has anything in her life to be ashamed of is s-s-stupid, not to m-mention insulting.”
“Everybody has something to be ashamed of, DeVries. You stole a dollar in the third grade.”
“Yeah, and I learned my lesson. We’re talking about s-s-serious s-stuff. Just b-back off.”
“Oh, sure. And let your campaign go down the toilet.”
More and more, Phoebe felt like a tool, or a pawn, in this endeavor. She was tempted just to slip out and let them argue. But she owed Adam—and Tommy, she supposed—the truth.
“There is one thing,” she said quietly.
Adam snapped his head around to stare at her. Tommy dropped back against his seat. “I told you so. Let me have it.”
“I was seeing a patient shortly before I left. A teenager who stuttered. Before I realized it, he’d developed a crush on me. His mother called to ask why he wasn’t making progress, which was not my experience—I thought he did quite well in our sessions. Turned out he didn’t want his parents to think he was better and make him quit coming.”
“What happened?” Adam asked quietly.
“I talked to him and transferred him to another therapist. He wasn’t happy, but I broke things off as cleanly as I could. I’d already made plans to leave Atlanta.” She coughed, drank some tea. “That’s all.”
Abby came to the table with her order book. “Same as usual, everybody?”
The men nodded, but Phoebe knew she couldn’t eat. “Just more tea.”
“Nope, sorry. Not possible. How about a small bowl of oatmeal? Not too hot, not too thick, with milk and brown sugar. You ne
ed something to run on, sweetie.”
Arguing with Abby was useless. “Sure. I’ll try.”
“Good girl.”
Adam put his hand on the nape of her neck, and she nearly wept at the relief, the pleasure of his cool touch. “Why d-don’t you let me d-drive you home? Your c-clients can re-sch-sch-sch-…c-come another day.”
Tommy had been quiet too long. “So you think this teenager or his parents lodged a complaint about your treatment? And could Sam Pettit dig that up?”
“Enough.” Adam’s voice was harsh. “You’re a j-jerk, Tommy. Whatever g-gets into the paper, we’ll d-d-deal with it. Leave Phoebe alone.”
The man across the table stared at Adam for a second, glanced at Phoebe, then slid out of the booth. “Great. Terrific,” Tommy said. “I don’t need the hassle of trying to win, anyway. I’ll send the bills to your office.” The wild clamor of the bell on the door announced his departure.
“G-good riddance,” Adam muttered, just as Abby arrived with their breakfast.
She looked at Tommy’s empty place, set Phoebe’s oatmeal and another mug of tea in front of her, then slid Adam’s plate onto the table. “I haven’t had a chance to eat, myself,” she commented, and took the extra meal back to the kitchen.
Phoebe eyed the oatmeal without enthusiasm. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“He f-forgets there are limits.”
“Maybe you think too much about limits.”
“M-maybe. Are you g-going to let me take you home?”
“No.”
He shrugged. “Whatever you say.”
After an uncomfortable silence, she roused herself enough to ask, “Things going better at work?”
“No.”
The last three weeks had been hard ones, even without their personal complications. Adam’s campaign appearances had taken over his regular schedule to such an extent that he’d missed a couple of bid deadlines. While most builders got the work done whenever it suited them, Adam cared about delivering quality building on time. But when he didn’t get supplies ordered, or inspections arranged because he was out of the office, when something had to be done twice or three times because he didn’t get there to supervise the special details, the jobs suffered. Throw in three instances of vandalism, and she could understand his irritation.
“Have the police found out anything about the vandalism? Any hint of who might have done it?”
“They’re sure it’s just drugged-out kids.”
“You’re not?”
He shrugged. “Given his track record, I’m more likely to suspect L. T. LaRue. But I don’t have a shred of evidence to support the idea.”
Phoebe let her jaw drop. “He has a track record?”
“When he wanted to take over M-Magnolia C-Cottage—D-Dixon’s house, you know?—there were some incidents that were traced back to LaRue. I wouldn’t put it past him to try to intimidate me.”
“Then he doesn’t know you very well, does he?”
Adam smiled. “N-not very. He d-didn’t gr-grow up with the rest of us, but c-came to town after he married K-Kate. I g-guess he’s always f-felt like an outsider. Buying off the city c-council and the m-mayor is his way of fitting in.”
“Have you told the police what you think?”
“The chief goes f-fishing with the m-mayor and LaRue.”
“Oh.” She sniffled, then coughed. “Well, in six weeks, your life will go back to normal…except for the part about being mayor.”
He didn’t smile, didn’t comment. She heard him blow out a long breath.
And in six weeks, her life could go back to normal. She wouldn’t dress in the morning with consideration for which luncheon or dinner she might have to attend. She wouldn’t plan her weekend around pancake breakfasts, ball games and pig pickin’s. Sunday would be a day for cleaning the tack room and riding the horses, not walking mile after mile through the neighborhoods in town, knocking on doors and smiling while Adam met the constituents.
In six weeks, she could stop wondering why Adam walked out on her that Sunday night. She had tried every day since to forget, but seeing him, being with him, holding hands and smiling, posing for pictures with his arm around her, made forgetting impossible. With all the campaign frenzy, they’d had no chance to talk. The barrier he’d built was so solid now, Phoebe doubted they could knock it down with a sledgehammer.
Just as well, since six weeks would see the end. Of everything.
He glanced at her untouched cereal. “You’re not g-going to eat?”
“No.”
“Abby’ll be m-mad.”
“She can sue me.”
He gave a ghost of a chuckle. “N-no, she’ll just yell at me for making you s-sick to begin with. I’ll take c-care of the b-b-bill. B-back in a m-minute.”
Phoebe watched him walk away, admired his straight back and narrow hips, his easy stride. Even sick, tired, discouraged, she wanted him with an ache worse than any she’d ever known. But for a reason she didn’t understand, he had said no.
The memory brought tears, and she was too weak today to stop them. Sliding clumsily across the seat, she struggled to her feet and, like Tommy, escaped from Adam DeVries. He came out of the diner as she braked the Beetle at the red light on the corner, but she didn’t think about going back.
Instead, she called Willa to cancel all her appointments for the day, drove herself home and hid with her misery under the covers of her bed.
ADAM CHECKED LATER IN the day and was relieved to hear from her receptionist that Phoebe had done as he suggested and gone home. “Poor girl sounded terrible,” Willa told him. “No need for her to be drivin’ all the way into town and back when she’s so sick.”
Guilt struck him, hard. “She c-can b-be stubborn about her work, though.”
“That she can. I canceled her clients for tomorrow, too. We’ll see how she’s feelin’ for Wednesday.”
Adam didn’t intend to wait two days to see how Phoebe was feeling. As soon as he could break away from work that evening, he headed out to Swallowtail Farm, thankful that this Monday, at least, he didn’t have a campaign appearance scheduled.
The gate for the farm stood open, as if she hadn’t had the energy to close it after her. In the lower pasture, the big black stallion raced Adam’s truck along the fence until forced to turn at the corner. Robin and Marian greeted his arrival with pricked ears but didn’t stop their grazing. Brady and Cristal stood at the far fence with their backs to him and didn’t notice him at all.
The dogs made up for the horses’ lack of enthusiasm. The three of them sat at the door to the porch, sharp-eared and panting, obviously anxious to get inside.
“What’s wrong, guys?” He talked to them as he approached, whether for his own reassurance or theirs, he wasn’t sure. “Have you been out all day? Where’s Phoebe?” When he opened the door, the three animals waited patiently to be invited in, as Phoebe had no doubt trained them to do. “Come on. Let’s find her.”
Not a single lamp or light had been turned on in the dark house. Adam wasn’t surprised—he would have walked straight through and fallen into bed, himself. Phoebe, it appeared, had done the same. But that would have been twelve hours ago. Had she been asleep all this time?
He turned on the lamp nearest her bedroom and went to the doorway. In the darkness, a woman-sized lump was just barely visible underneath the bedspread. Leaving the room light off, he sat beside the lump, feeling gently for a shoulder or an arm.
“Phoebe? Phoebe, wake up.” She stirred, but briefly. “C-c’mon, Phoebe, honey. Roll over.” He pulled at her shoulder to turn her slightly.
“Go ’way.” She sounded parched. Adam felt for her cheek and nearly jerked his fingers away from the heat.
“You’re b-burning up.” Abandoning caution, he switched on the lamp on the nearby table.
Red-faced and glassy-eyed, still wearing the dress she’d had on at breakfast, Phoebe glared at him from her rumpled bed. “What’re you doing here?”
>
“Taking c-care of you. Where’s your aspirin? When d-did you last d-drink something?”
“Go away.” She huddled under the covers again.
“Like hell.” Since she wouldn’t tell him, he went on a foraging mission for medicine, along with clean sheets and blankets and a nightgown. With supplies at hand, he tackled the woman in the bed again.
Figuratively, anyway. “C’mon, honey, you’ve g-got to g-give me some help, here. Sit up, Phoebe.”
“Don’t make me.”
“I have to. You n-need to d-drink. You n-need m-medicine. I’ve got you a c-clean n-nightgown,” he wheedled, hoping that might be a bribe.
She peered at him over the edge of the blanket. “You are not undressing me.”
“I will if I have to.”
The word she used was so unlike her that Adam smiled. “I can change my own clothes.” Pushing weakly at the covers, she dragged herself to the edge of the bed, sat up and felt for the floor with her feet. “I am capable of taking care of myself.” She stood up…swayed, and would have fallen if Adam hadn’t caught her.
“I can see that.” He eased her to sit again on the bed. “Close your eyes and think of England, Phoebe. I’m going to undress you.”
“Adam…” She closed her eyes, and tears streaked down her cheeks. “I hate you.”
“I know.” He lowered the zipper on her dress and lifted her enough to get the fabric free, then drew it over her head.
Immediately, her teeth chattered. “It’s so cold.”
“You’ve got a fever, honey. And goose bumps on your goose bumps.” He took off her silky slip and her bra, forcing his eyes and his thoughts away from her small, rose-tipped breasts, her smooth and creamy skin. “This’ll help.” The nightgown he’d found was flannel, soft, worn, and she sighed as he slipped it over her arms.
“My favorite.” She smiled. “You’re a smart man.”
“Sure. Lie back and let me get these hose off.”
The Last Honest Man Page 17