But then she peered closer. Why, he actually did look kind of bashful. About what?
He grabbed her hand. "Come on," he commanded gruffly, turning on his heel and setting off. Fast.
"Tate..." She hung back, trying to toe up her sandal and slide it back on before he dragged her away from it.
But he gave her no chance for that. "This way." He kept going, his strong jaw set, his expression intent, hauling her along behind.
It did appear he was heading toward the master bedroom in back. So then no problem, she thought. She stopped objecting and kicked off her other sandal.
Willingly she let him tow her, barefooted, to where she very much wanted to go.
In his bedroom, he swung the door shut, flicked on a light, and led her to the big, heavily carved bureau against a nearby wall. He let go of her hand long enough to slide open the top drawer and take out a black velvet ring box.
By then, she knew what was coming.
He dropped to one knee on the thickly padded antique rug and she looked down at his upturned, handsome face—and tried to stop him. "Tate. Listen, I..."
But he'd already flipped open the little box, revealing a diamond that put Lena Lou Billingsworth's paltry four carats to shame. "Marry me, Molly." He was smiling, an open, glorious kind of smile. "Marry me and let's give our baby his daddy's name. Marry me. Be my wife." He chuckled. "Make it so that Miranda will never again have to be embarrassed when she catches us kissing out in the hallway." He took out the ring and dropped the box to the rug.
A big, fat yes almost got out of her mouth. But somehow, she stopped it. She slid her left hand behind her back where he couldn't get to it and she told him, with deepest regret, "No, Tate. I can't do that. I really can't. Not yet."
Chapter Ten
From his completely unaccustomed position on his knees, Tate gaped up at Molly in stunned disbelief.
Her silky gold hair, which had dried coiled and curly after all the dunking that afternoon, fell forward around her flushed face. Her lips, still soft and red from his kisses, trembled. Her golden-brown eyes pleaded with him, filled with regret.
Regret?
What in hell for? She didn't need to regret a damn thing. She only needed to open that plump, tempting mouth of hers and say yes. She only had to hold out her hand, accept his ring on her finger and come into his arms, all his at last.
But she was doing none of those things. Oh, no, not Molly.
Molly was again telling him no.
Numb disbelief began to melt into hot rage. He blinked and looked down at himself.
On his knees in front of her. Could he sink any lower?
How did this keep happening to him? Where she was concerned, he always came off feeling chuckle-headed as a damn prairie dog.
Why just look at all he'd done to claim her. The daily presents for Dusty—a lot of them damned difficult to get, you'd better believe. And not only presents. Oh, no. Because of him, Dusty was learning to fly. And what about how he'd gotten her that job at Skinny's airfield—not to mention the very personal attention of Skinny himself.
And then there was Dixie. How about the way he'd kissed up to her? Eating at the diner five days a week, lapping up the flapjacks and sausage, the biscuits and gravy. His arteries were probably hard as rocks by now. He could be headed straight for a coronary, could have sacrificed his health, just for the chance to cozy up to Molly's mother and get to know Ray.
And speaking of Ray...
Hadn't Tate gone against his own principles, pulling strings with Davey Luster, forcing him to hire Ray?
And then there was that town council meeting yesterday. Hadn't he eaten crow and pretended to like it, sitting there, grinning like a long-gone fool while they kicked around Molly's bleeding-heart plan for indigent care? Hadn't he spoken right up at the end, gracious as some old maid at high tea, asking for a few more cuts in the plan and then promising it would get his vote?
And all for what?
To end up on his knees being told no.
He swept to his feet and glared down at her. "Damn you, Molly."
"Oh, Tate..." She shrank back.
He opened his mouth to start shouting at her. She needed a good, hard shake or two.
Oh, yeah, he was going to give it to her right and proper. Let her know just what he thought of her, after all his sucking up to her crazy family, after giving the go-ahead to dip into town coffers for a program that wouldn't make a red cent for anyone....
But then, in that split second before he ripped her a new one, some small, cautious voice in the back of his head reminded him softly that he ought to be honest—at least with himself.
Now think about it, Tate. Do you really feel that put upon for all you did to get your chance with her?
He blinked and looked—really looked—at the woman in front of him. She had fallen back another step. Her gaze was locked on his face, her expression worried and watchful and a little bit scared of him. In a minute, she would be whirling, slamming out the door.
And he had to admit it. Even if she wouldn't marry him, even if he never found a way to convince her of the absolute necessity of giving their kid his daddy's name. Even if she never became his wife...
He wanted her for as long as he could have her.
He sure as hell didn't want her to leave him tonight.
And that's not all, is it? that small voice in his head was asking.
No. No, it wasn't.
He might as well get straight about this in his own mind. The plain fact was, he had actually enjoyed pleasing Dusty. There had been a real sense of accomplishment in being the one who turned Molly's granny from a man-hating crone with a shotgun in her hands to a handsome old woman with her head held high and a welcoming smile on her wrinkled lips. He was glad he'd been able to help her find work— and he was downright pleased with himself that he'd gotten her hooked up with sweet old Skinny Jordan.
As to Dixie and Ray...
The bald truth was, he liked taking his breakfast at the diner, having a little company during what had always seemed to him a lonely meal. And he'd be a lying dog if he didn't admit he was proud that he'd reached out a hand, man-to-man, to help Ray. And hadn't he been deeply touched when Ray stuttered out a request that he be Ray's best man?
And what about that damned proposal for indigent and shut-in care? Looking back, he had to admit he'd felt a tightness of self-satisfaction in his chest when he'd looked into to the eyes of the Tate's Junction citizenry and declared himself willing to support a plan for the public good and the public good alone.
"Tate?" She was still looking worried, but at least she'd stopped backing up. He realized he'd balled his right hand to a fist. The big diamond was slicing into his palm. He lifted it, palm up, and opened his fingers to reveal the rim of red around the sharp-edged stone. "Oh, Tate," she cried. "You went and hurt yourself..." She moved up close, all feminine and flustered at the very idea that he might be injured. She reached for his hand.
And he let her take it, heat bursting through him just at her lightest touch. "It's nothing," he growled. "A dinky little scratch."
She did the most confounding thing then. She plucked the diamond out of his hand, spread his fingers wide open and pressed her lips to the tiny cut. She raised her head, her amber gaze seeking and finding his.
Their eyes met—and something exploded inside him. Something hot and full of light and wonder. Something that burned and healed at the same time.
"You've got blood on your mouth," he heard himself whispering.
And she rose on tiptoe and pressed her lips to his. He kissed her—gently, carefully, a kiss of deep yearning, yet with considerable restraint.
When she pulled back, the blood on her lips was gone. In his own mouth he tasted a fading hint of copper.
"Please, Tate. Try to understand. I grew up not even knowing who my father was, listening to Granny tell me over and over that there was nothing so bad or so dangerous as the human male, seeing my poor mama get us
ed and abused by one useless, violent, no-good man after another. Even if you were as sweet and easygoing as Ray Deekins, you'd still be taking on a big challenge to try to get me to marry you, to convince me to give my trust over to you in such a deep and important way." She looked down at his hand, still held in hers, and petted the scratch on his palm, which had already given up its few drops of blood and remained nothing more than a thin red line.
"And, Tate?" She slanted an upward glance at him.
He resisted the urge to grab her and grind his mouth down on hers. No, he thought. Let her finish. He forced out a low noise, trying to sound encouraging, holding his hand very still where it lay cupped in her smaller one.
Apparently she was encouraged. She continued, "Well, no offense, but you are not, as a rule, a sweet and easygoing man. You like to be the boss and you like things done your way—and I'm not calling you down for that. I'm not all that sweet myself, and I like to do things my way."
He grunted. "Tell me about."
She made a wry kind of face and then got all serious and eager again. "In the past few weeks, you have truly amazed me." Well. He did like the sound of that. "All the wonderful things you've been doing for my family, how really calm and patient you've been with me and my refusal to do what you want me to do." As she spoke, his heart seemed to get a little bigger inside his chest. His blood raced faster and the glow that had started inside him grew all the brighter. She continued, "You are..." She struggled to find words.
He longed to help her out, to provide a few helpful adjectives that might begin to describe how heroic and noble he'd been. But, no, she had a right to come up with her own words of praise and admiration.
Somehow he managed to keep his mouth shut.
And eventually, she went on, "You have me starting to think that maybe it could work out between us, in the end. That we could make a real marriage..." She frowned, looking puzzled, "Whatever that is."
He wasn't all that sure what a good marriage was himself. But he wasn't about to let her know that. He said with great intensity and determination, "We can, Molly. I know we can."
A sad little smile kind of flirted with the corners of her mouth. Gently, she put the engagement ring back in his hand. Tenderly she folded his fingers around it. "Oh, Tate. How could you know that? You've got no more clue than I do what a good marriage is."
It was exactly what he'd been thinking a moment before. But still, it irked him to hear her say it out loud.
She turned from him and padded over to his bed, dropping to the studded leather bench at the foot of it. "And when have I ever seen a good marriage close up? That's a big, fat never. I have no idea how to be a good wife. And I'm sorry to say it, with you being so wonderful and all lately, but I still have my doubts that you're husband material." She flung out a hand in his general direction. "I mean, look at you, Tate." She shook her head.
Reasonably certain he wouldn't be too thrilled with whatever she was going to say next, he looked down at his half-unbuttoned, rumpled tux shirt and sissified sky-blue slacks. When he met her eyes again, he shrugged and tried to make light of whatever criticism seemed to be coming his way. "This getup's pretty bad, I'll admit. But don't blame me. It was your mother and her groom who chose it."
She gave him one of those table-clearing gusty sighs of hers. "Oh, Tate."
He shook his head. "You know, I'm not so sure I like it when you start in with the 'Oh, Tates.'"
"It's just that, well, you were raised by Ol' Tuck. And there is no one more hardheaded and overbearing than he was. And then, look at your grandmother..."
His grandmother had been a woman of impeccable taste and breeding. Gruffly he demanded. "What was wrong with her?"
"Oh, you know..."
"She was a fine woman."
"I'm not saying she wasn't. It's only, well, the hoity-toity family background and all that. Wasn't she from Savannah or something?"
"Charleston, as a matter of fact."
"Savannah. Charleston. Whatever. A great beauty in her time, isn't that right?"
He answered proudly, "Yes, she was."
"All the spunk and vinegar bred right out of her."
He frowned. "Well, now. I wouldn't say—"
"Oh, Tate. You know it's true. Your grandmother was so well-bred and retiring, she'd only ask sweetly, 'How high?' when 01' Tuck said, 'Jump.' And then, what about your poor mama?"
"What about her?" Tate growled.
"Oh, well. You know..."
"If I did, Molly," he said carefully, "I wouldn't have asked."
"Well, ahem, I mean, was there ever a woman so pitiful and beaten down as that?" He would have answered in his mother's defense, but she gave him no chance. "Uh-uh. Your granddaddy ruled her just the way he ruled your grandma. You have to face it. You were born, bred and raised to believe that women aren't as good as men, that a woman's place is in the home, flat on her back, with her mouth shut. In the world where you grew up, women fluttered around arranging flowers and looking decorative and never daring to argue with the master of the house." So what's wrong with that? he longed to ask—but had sense enough not to. Though his mother was a little too jumpy and withdrawn for his taste, he'd always thought of his grandmother as the perfect example of what a well-bred woman ought to be. Quiet. Soft-spoken. Not to mention obedient. Molly capped the long list of insults to his family with, "You've never seen a real marriage close up any more than I have."
"A real marriage?" he huffed. "Listen here, Molly. My grandfather and grandmother were married. My mother was married to my father. Those were real marriages, don't try to tell me they weren't."
Now Molly wore an irksome patient look. "Tate, you know what I mean. I'm not talking about a preacher saying the right words or a piece of paper that declares you husband and wife. I'm talking about in here." She fisted her hand and thumped herself in the chest with it. "I'm talking about give and take, about a man and a woman working together as equals to make a better life for themselves—and for their babies."
He gestured broadly. "Look around. Life's pretty good here as it is."
She shook her head. "There you go talking about all your money. Well, I don't only mean money. There are other things that matter, you know."
"Golly, Molly," he muttered, heavy on the irony. "Thanks for pointing that out. I had no idea."
She looked pained. "Can you not be sarcastic? Please?"
Terrific. He was in for it now. She'd give it to him in detail, what a money-grubbing SOB he was.
But she surprised him. She said nothing more— only looked at him, eyes wide and mouth grimly shut.
"So, then." He gave her a long, slow once-over, sneering while he did it. "What are you doing here, if there's no damn hope for us?"
She hiked up her chin and pulled back her shoulders, sitting tall and proud. "I didn't say there wasn't any hope."
"Could have fooled me."
"I was only trying to get you to see what we're up against, that's all." She rose then from the leather bench and approached him—cautiously. He watched her coming, holding her gaze, keeping his own eyes steady and narrowed. She got right up close and tipped her face up to his. He could smell the warm, sweet scent of her body, see the little gold specks in those amber eyes. "I just need you to accept that right now, I can't say yes to you. Right now, I still don't know if we could make it together in the long run."
He took her by the shoulders—with care, but with firmness, too. "How 'bout this? You don't know— but I do. We can make it. Take my word for it."
She groaned a little, and not with passion. "Oh, Tate. Just because you say it doesn't make it so. And besides, I have to be sure, too. And I'm not. Not yet."
He wondered, as he'd wondered a thousand times before, how a woman so smooth and soft to the touch, a woman who smelled so sweet and looked so good, could be so damn difficult ninety-nine percent of the time. He whispered low, "Take a chance. Make the leap."
"I wish that I could." She spoke equally softly, se
arching his face. "I truly do."
He gripped her shoulders harder as he had that all-too-familiar urge to shake her. She winced. He knew he was holding on too tight—and the ring he still had in his hand was poking her. He released her, letting his arms drop to his sides. "You wish that you could," he muttered. "A wish and five bucks will get you a lottery ticket—and a one-in-ten-million chance you could win."
She chewed on that plump bottom lip of hers. "Tate, I just can't. Not yet..."
Yelling at her never got him anywhere, he reminded himself for the umpteenth time. He had to take what she'd given him, paltry as it was, and do what he could with it. "But you do think you could. In time."
She raised her hand and laid it, so lightly, on the side of his face. "Oh, I hope so."
She hoped. She wished.
He caught her wrist, hard—then forced himself to loosen his grip. Gently but firmly, he pushed her cradling hand away from his face. Then he bent to pick up the velvet ring case. He set the ring in its slot and snapped the case shut. It made a sharp, all-too-final kind of sound. He rose to his height and laid the case on the bureau.
"So then, Molly. What about right now?" He turned to her again. "What about tonight?"
"Oh, Tate..." Her eyes had a look in them—kind of velvety and melting. A look that said yes.
At least for tonight...
Heat sizzled through him.
Tonight. He wanted that. A lot.
Too bad it wasn't enough.
All you're getting, buddy, he thought. It'll have to be enough for now.
And hey, with just a little bit of sugarcoating, he could tell himself he was doing okay, making real progress.
She'd come home with him openly, hadn't she? She was here in his bedroom, wasn't she?
And she did have that soft, hungry look in her eyes, that look that said she didn't want to leave.
He reached for her, hooking his arm low at her waist, reeling her in.
She didn't object as he hauled her up tight against him. He felt the soft fullness of her breasts pressing into his chest. Heat arrowed through him. She gasped—a tiny, needful sound.
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