And Libby obeyed in a mindless storm that started deep inside her and spiraled outward and upward and escaped from her throat in a cry of pure pleasure. She convulsed around him, and Michael leaned over her, pulled her mouth to his, and captured her scream.
It lasted forever, this wondrous thing, and Libby clung desperately to his hand as pulse after sensuous pulse of pleasure ran through her trembling body.
“Sometimes a woman’s scream is like music,” he whispered, kissing her, gentling her with tender caresses, slowly bringing her back to reality.
Libby melted against him with a shuddering sigh, willing her pounding heart to slow down. She finally opened her eyes, blinked at the fire, and blushed all the way to her socks.
Michael laughed, lifting her with him as he stood. Before she could catch her breath, he swept her into his arms and set them down on the couch, cradling her on his lap in a tender cuddle. Libby attempted to pull her blouse closed, but he stilled her action, instead using his broad, warm palm and strong, masculine fingers to cover her breasts.
Libby’s blush intensified.
His smile turned smug. “That was your first time,” he said with undisguised male satisfaction.
Not quite sure how to respond to that statement and still trying to gather her wits back, Libby remained mute.
He absently caressed the side of her breast. “And that, lass, answers some of my questions but creates a few more.”
Libby still couldn’t find her voice. It might be because her heart was still racing a mile a minute or because she was sprawled across Michael like a shameless hussy. Or maybe she was afraid that if she opened her mouth she would scream again—and it wouldn’t sound like music this time.
“How is it that a woman your age hasn’t ever experienced an orgasm?”
Libby flinched at his blunt question and finally found her voice. “I guess the foreplay is over.”
He nodded. And smiled crookedly. “It is for now,” he drawled. “The moment I realized you were a virgin, I completely disgraced myself like a boy of ten.”
“I am not a virgin, Michael. I’ve had plenty of boyfriends.”
His nod was slower this time. “But you are, lass. Or were,” he corrected. “Maybe not technically,” he quickly added. “But emotionally. It isn’t really sex unless both people involved are completely satisfied.”
“Then what is it? Really?”
He shrugged. “Use,” he clarified. “Or abuse, more likely, when one party is slaked and the other is left…hanging.”
Michael the philosopher was back.
Libby decided she preferred the sex god.
She tried to pull her blouse closed again, and this time Michael helped her by pulling it over her shoulders. Libby rose to her feet, buttoned herself up, and fastened her pants.
Then she just stood there, staring at the fire.
What was she supposed to do now? What did a woman say to a man who had just given her the experience of true passion for the first time in her life?
Thank you? I hope we can do this again soon?
Like maybe right now? Only this time, could we both please get naked and actually…do it?
Libby turned at the sound of papers being shuffled and found Michael reading her lists. Heat climbed into her face when she realized exactly which page he had stopped at.
His gaze went to the side table, and he picked up her pencil and started writing. She leaned over to see, but he quickly shuffled the pages and started writing again.
Libby spun on her socked heel and walked to the kitchen on rubbery legs. She went to the fridge and took out the bottle of wine Grace MacKeage had thoughtfully included with the groceries, then started rummaging through the drawers for a corkscrew. She found one, but the damned thing refused to work properly. So she rummaged through the drawers again, looking for something either to pry the cork out of the bottle or to drive it down inside.
The wine bottle was suddenly lifted out of her hand and replaced by her pages of lists. Michael leaned against the counter, crossed his feet at his ankles, and slowly turned the suddenly obedient corkscrew into the bottle.
He stopped to use one finger to tap the top page in her hand, then went back to work on the wine. “When ya go shopping for new clothes, buy a blaze orange jacket,” he said. “And spend the extra money for Gore-Tex boots. Nothing freezes a person quicker than wet feet.”
Libby stared at her list and saw thatbirth control had been crossed out and thatblaze orange jacket andwaterproof boots had been added in neat, dark letters.ATV also had been crossed out, and the wordsnowmobile was written beside it.
“Rifle season begins tomorrow,” Michael said. He turned and opened a cupboard as he spoke. “So don’t step outside this house without wearing orange.” He took down two tumblers, set them on the counter, and filled them with wine. “Not even to go to your mailbox. Blaze orange is necessary from the first part of November to mid-December.”
Libby looked down at her list again, but her chin was lifted by Michael’s finger to gain back her attention. “And if I ever catch you outside without wearing orange, lass, I will personally make you sorry you ever left California,” he said very softly, his eyes far more threatening than his words.
Libby was more curious than intimidated. “What do you mean by rifle season?”
“Deer hunting.”
“Oh.” She was buying a lot of orange clothes, then, even orange socks. “Why did you crossbirth control off my list? Are you trying to get Robbie a brother or sister?” she asked, deciding it was time to rattle his calm. The man was acting as if what had just happened in the living room were an everyday occurrence.
Good God. She’d just had her first orgasm.
But Michael didn’t appear rattled by her question, only amused. “I’ll take care of the birth control,” he told her.
Libby shook her head. “Since this is a consequence I would have to live with, I’ll take care of it.”
He looked as if he would argue, but instead he handed her one of the tumblers of wine. He clinked their glasses together and nodded. “Then we’ll consider the affair begun,” he said, his eyes shining with what Libby could only describe as possession.
And that alarmed her, almost as much as his ability to make her body react in ways she hadn’t thought possible. She was thirty-one years old, and she felt sixteen, like a reckless, infatuated, trembling teenager experiencing her first case of lust. Libby took a large gulp of her wine, coughed for a good minute, and looked down at her list through blurry eyes.
“Why…” She coughed again and started over. “Why did you cross outATV and write insnowmobile?” she asked, deciding to move onto safer ground. “I want an ATV.”
He shook his head. “You’d only have another week to use it, at best. ATVs are no good in the snow, and they’re not allowed on the groomed snowmobile trails.”
“Do you have a snowmobile?”
“Aye. And so does Robbie.”
Libby wanted to ask if the boy wore a helmet when he rode his snowmobile.
“And we both wear helmets,” he told her before she could work up the nerve, his mouth lifting in a knowing grin. “Only suicidal fools ride without them. And they keep us warm.”
Libby took another drink of her wine, slower this time.
“I see you bought Callum’s truck,” he said, nodding toward the attached garage. “You’ll be glad for the four-wheel drive this winter. And for its size. This is the main road leading out of the deep woods, and Monday through Friday you’ll meet loaded logging trucks. So stay alert, and don’t ever swerve again for an animal. Your life is more precious than theirs.”
“Is it because I’m nearly the size of your son that you feel this need to lecture me as if I were a child?” she asked, tossing her lists on the counter and downing the rest of her wine.
Michael moved so quickly Libby barely had time to finish swallowing before she was picked up, spun around, and set on the counter. He took the tumbler out o
f her hand and put it in the sink, then stood between her thighs, pulling her firmly against him.
“No,” he said with maddening calm. “It’s because I want you to live long enough for us to mess up your sheets.”
She couldn’t argue with that. Libby framed both her hands over his face and stared into his gleaming eyes. “I don’t suppose you have some birth control in your pocket?” she asked.
“Nay, lass,” he said, shaking his head within her hands.
“And I doubt what I have at home is any good. It’s at least a couple of years old.”
Her surprise must have shown on her face, because her hands moved with his grin. He pulled her hips more firmly against him and leaned forward to kiss her gaping mouth.
“Are ya thinking I’m in the habit of having affairs?” he asked just inches from her lips.
“I…I thought…I don’t know what I thought.”
“Then think on this, lass. I’ve loved two women, and they both died, each taking a good part of me with her. All I have left is just enough for my son. Look only for passion from me, Libby, because that’s all I can give you.”
“It’s enough, Michael,” she whispered, pulling his face close so she could kiss him.
He met her mouth with plenty of the passion he’d promised, and Libby thought her hormones were going to erupt into another riot. But he suddenly stopped and stepped back.
He grabbed his jacket off one of the kitchen chairs, gave her one last heated look, and left as quietly as he had arrived.
Libby stared at the curtain settling back into place against the closing door. She covered her racing heart with one hand and reached for the wine bottle with the other. After a long, healthy swig straight from the bottle, Libby let her gaze travel around the kitchen.
It seemed larger now that Michael had left.
It was definitely more peaceful. The man didn’t have to say a word, make a sound, or even move for her to feel as if she were standing in the middle of a brewing storm.
Libby took another swig of wine and continued to look around the silent kitchen, her gaze finally landing on a small box sitting on the table.
It hadn’t been there an hour ago.
She jumped down from the counter, walked to the table, and picked up the envelope lying on top of the box. She unsealed it, took out the paper, and read the note written in not-so-neat letters painstakingly formed by a young hand.
Dear Libby,
I was thinking you might like to do this small job for me, since you’re an artist and are good with your hands. I’m working on a special Christmas gift for my father, but this part of it is too hard for me to do. Could you please paint the wordTàirneanaicheon the small wooden board? I put some gold paint in the box, too. Don’t worry, I’m not asking you for a favor, just giving you a job so you can earn money until your studio is open. I will have Papa compensate you, but don’t tell him what it’s for, just how much you’re charging.
Thank you,
Robbie MacBain
Libby read the note twice, then broke the piece of tape on the box and opened it. Sure enough, there was a small wooden board inside, about six inches long. Libby picked it up and looked at the note again.Tàirneanaiche? What kind of word was that?
She looked back at the wood. It appeared to be a plaque of some sort, its corners scrolled inward and a beveled line running along all four edges. The plaque was made from a soft wood, like pine or hemlock, and had been carefully sanded.
What wasTàirneanaiche?
Libby reread the note, looking for a clue to what the word meant or what the plaque was for. But Robbie was being secretive about his father’s Christmas gift.
And then she came to the part where he promised his father would compensate her, and Libby laughed out loud.
Hadn’t Michael just paid her in full?
She stuck the note inside the box and carried it into her bedroom. She set it on the dresser, thinking about Robbie and Michael’s relationship. The boy obviously trusted his father to bring the box to her without peeking inside. And she decided she wanted Robbie’s trust, too, and would do his little job and keep his secret. All she’d ask for in compensation was the meaning ofTàirneanaiche.
Libby undressed and slipped into the heavy flannel gown she’d grabbed from her grandmother Bea’s farm when she had gone to pack up her equipment. She crawled under the bedcovers, tucked her arms under her head, and fell asleep with the smile of a woman who had finally lost her virginity.
Chapter Ten
Libby opened the door,stepped onto the porch, and stared at the wonderland surrounding her. Frost had settled on everything overnight and gleamed in the bright morning sunlight like polished diamonds. One of the hens was out, pecking at the ground beside the coop, puffed up like a strutting turkey in defense of the cold.
Libby was just stepping off the porch to give chase to the escaped bird when she heard the gunshot. She quickly stepped back and looked toward TarStone Mountain as the shot echoed down the mountainside like a crack of thunder.
Rifle season.
Which meant that some poor deer was up there right now, running for its life.
Libby also ran, worried for her own life, back into the house. She went to the bathroom and pulled a bright yellow towel off the rack. It wasn’t blaze orange, but she couldn’t think of any animal that had curb-yellow fur. She wrapped the towel around her shoulders like a shawl and stepped back onto the porch. Ducking her head like a soldier being shot at, she ran across the yard and bolted into the chicken coop for safety.
Startled by her sudden arrival, the hens went nuts, flapping down from their roosts in a cacophony of frantic squawks and flying sawdust. Waving away the choking dust, Libby opened the bag of feed Ian had provided and filled the pan on the floor. She checked the water dispenser next and poked the skin of ice off the top. Two birds immediately started drinking.
Libby turned to the nesting boxes and peeked inside the three empty ones. She found only one broken egg and lifted it out along with some of the straw. She set the mess in an empty bucket by her feet and then turned her attention to the hen sitting in the fourth nesting box.
The hen stared back, unblinking, and lashed out when Libby reached under her to feel for an egg.
“Ouch, you ungrateful biddy,” Libby hissed, rubbing her hand on her thigh. “I’m going to let the hunters use you for target practice if you don’t quit pecking me,” she said, glaring at all the hens, including them in her threat.
“You girls give me eggs, and I feed you. That’s how it works around here.”
They weren’t listening. Half of them were eating, and the others were drinking. There was a faint sound at the coop door, and Libby walked over and opened it. The escaped hen came running inside and joined her coop mates at the feed pan.
Deciding she wasn’t going to find her breakfast in there that morning, Libby stepped outside, made sure the door was securely closed, and pulled her bright yellow towel over her head. She ran back to the house and onto the porch, breathing a sigh of relief when she didn’t hear any more gunshots.
Talk about strange, having to worry about going outside her own home. She had never considered hunting season in her decision to move to New England.
She wasn’t a vegetarian. She liked meat. But she wasn’t sure she could eat a cute little deer. She could eat one or two of her chickens, though, if they kept pecking her.
Libby hung her towel on the peg beside the door and went to the bathroom to wash her hands while she thought about the busy day ahead. She had a million things to do, and her checkbook was going to take another big hit.
She considered adding a new bed to her list. She wasn’t keen on messing up Mary’s sheets with Mary’s former lover in Mary’s old bed. It was bad enough she was living in Mary’s house.
Libby quickly brushed her teeth and fluffed her hair. She gathered up her purse and lists and headed into the garage. She was going straight to the Dolans’ store and buying waterproof boo
ts, thick gloves to protect her hands from pecking chickens, and a blaze orange jacket and hat.
She opened the garage door, walked to her new truck and opened its door, and then tried to remember how she had climbed into the damn thing the night before for her test drive.
Oh, yeah. Callum had kindly lifted her in. Then he had kindly suggested she have running boards installed. And he had not-so-kindly laughed the whole time.
Libby had met his wife, Charlotte, and their handsome son, Duncan.
It took her several tries to get into the truck before Libby finally conceded defeat. She looked around the garage and found a wooden crate, then stood it on end to use as a step. Once inside the truck, she reached down and picked up the crate, setting it on the floor on the passenger side. She’d need it again if she wanted to drive the truck home.
Libby spent the next three minutes adjusting the seat, thankful that it was electric and moved up as well as forward. Still, Callum also had suggested—kindly—that she tape a block of wood to the gas pedal so she could reach it.
She fastened her seat belt and started the truck, smiling at the sound of the powerful engine as she looked around the interior. The Suburban was large enough to hold a dance in. Libby shook her head and laughed at herself. Who would have thought, just a month ago, that she would be living in Maine, in the mountains, driving a truck almost as large as her town house?
But Libby quickly sobered. She was guilty of cowardice, of turning her back on her work. But mostly, she was guilty of not wanting a gift that could help people.
But couldn’t that gift become her Midas touch? Was she supposed to heal everyone she came into contact with? Where would it end? When she became a one-woman freak show, with hordes of people seeking her out, hounding her, petitioning, begging?
Libby tried to reason with her unsettling thoughts. As long as she kept her gift a secret, she was safe. All anyone in Pine Creek needed to know was that she was a jewelry maker from California. Michael and Grace would keep her secret, she was sure. Neither one of them seemed overly bothered by her unwillingness to confide in them about her past.
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