“Come on, Leah. You’ve been through that muck once. You know how treacherous it is.”
She approached the sink, intent on making her point. “But that was at night. I couldn’t see. I didn’t know where I was going. My shoes weren’t the greatest—”
“What shoes would you wear now?”
“Yours. You must have an old pair of boots lying around.”
“Sure. Size twelve.”
She was standing directly before him, her face bright with hope. “I could pad them with wool socks.”
“You could also pack your feet in cement and try to move, because that’s pretty much what it would be like.”
“I could do it, Garrick.”
“Not fast enough. In case you’ve forgotten, it’s raining out there. The idea is to make the round trip as quickly as possible.”
“How long can it take to dash a mile?”
“A mile?” He laughed. “Is that how far you thought you’d gone?”
“It took me forever,” she reasoned defensively, then quickly added, “but that was because it was dark and I kept falling.”
“Well, it’s light now, but you’ll fall anyway, because it’s slippery as hell out there. I’m used to it.” He brushed a forefinger along his mustache. “By the way, Victoria’s cabin is just about a third of a mile from here.”
“A third—” she began in amazement, then turned embarrassment into optimism. “But that’s nothing. I’ll be able to do it.”
Garrick looked down at her. Her head was tipped back, her brows arched high in hope. He found himself caught, enchanted by the gentle color on her cheeks, taunted by her moist, slightly parted lips. He wanted to kiss her just then, wanted it so suddenly and so badly that he knew he couldn’t do it. He’d bruise her. He’d be settling an argument in the sexist way he’d used in the past but detested now. Worse, he’d be showing a decided lack of control.
Control was what his new life was about. Self-control. No drinking, no smoking, no carousing. No impulsive kisses.
Instead of lowering his mouth to hers, he raised his hands to her shoulders and held them lightly. “I’d rather you stay here, Leah. For your own safety and comfort, if nothing else.”
Had he said it any other way or offered any other reason, Leah probably would have continued to argue. But his voice had been like smooth sand in the sun, fine grains of warmth entering her, quieting her, and his expression of concern was new and welcome.
Sucking on her upper lip, she stepped back, then forward again, this time around his large frame. She gave him a gentle nudge at the back of his waist. “Go. I’ll clean up.”
“You’ll have to tell me what you want.”
“Let me think for a minute.”
While she thought, he built up the fire and pulled on his rain gear. He was just finishing buckling his boots, when she handed him a list of what she’d like and where in her car he could find it. Tucking that list into the pocket of his oilskin slicker, he tugged up the hood, tipped its rim in the facsimile of a salute, then left.
* * *
A SHORT TIME LATER, sitting in the driver’s seat of the Golf, Garrick drew Victoria’s letter from Leah’s purse. He held it, turned it, stared at the back flap. He should slit it open, but he didn’t want to. He knew that he’d find an enthusiastic recommendation of Leah, and he certainly didn’t need that. Leah was doing just fine on her own behalf.
Damn, Victoria!
Stuffing the letter back into the purse, he quickly collected the things Leah had requested. It was an easy task, actually. She was very organized. Her note was even funny.
Battered Vuitton duffel (a gift, not my style) on top of no-name suitcases behind passenger’s seat. Mickey Mouse bookbag, one across and two down from duffel. Large grocery sack behind driver’s seat. (If sack reeks, scatter contents for animals and take black canvas tote bag, riding shotgun, instead.)
The sack didn’t reek, and he was able to manage the tote, too. He felt a little foolish with a purse slung over his shoulder, but it was well hidden by the rest of the load, and besides, who would see him?
No one did see him, but as he slogged through the rain heading back toward the cabin, he grew more and more annoyed. He was peeved at Leah for being so sweet and alone and comfortable. He was put out with Victoria for having sent her to him in the first place. He was riled by the bundles he carried, for they swung against his sides and made the task of keeping his balance on the slick mud that much harder. He was irritated with the rain, which trickled up his cuffs and which, if it hadn’t come at all, would have spared him the larger mess he was in.
Mostly he was angry at life for throwing him a curve when he least expected or needed it. Things had been going so well for him. He had his head straight, his priorities set. Then Leah came along, and suddenly he saw voids where he hadn’t seen them before.
He wanted her with a vengeance, and that infuriated him. She was a threat to the way of life he’d worked so hard to establish, because he sensed that nothing would be the same when she left. And she would leave. She was city. She was restaurants and theater and Louis Vuitton luggage—even if it had been a gift. She wasn’t about to fit into his life-style for long. Oh, sure, she found it a novelty now. The leisurely pace and the quiet were a break from her regular routine. But she’d be bored before long. So she’d leave. And he’d be alone again. Only this time he’d mind it.
By the time he reached the cabin he was in a dark mood. After silently depositing his load, he went out again and hiked farther up the mountain, moving quickly, ignoring the rain and cold. He felt a little more in control of himself when he finally turned and began the descent, but even then he bought extra time by going to the shed to work.
It was late when he entered the cabin. Leah had turned on the lights, and the fire was burning brightly. But it wasn’t the smell of wood smoke that met him. Shrugging from his wet outerwear, he sniffed the air, then glowered toward the kitchen.
Leah was at the stove. She’d looked up when he’d stomped in, but her attention had quickly returned to whatever it was she was stirring. He didn’t recognize the pan as one of his own, though he hadn’t been that long from civilization not to recognize it as a wok.
“Chinese?” he warbled. “You’re cooking Chinese?”
She sent him a nervous glance. “I’m trying. I just finished taking a course in it, but I haven’t really done it on my own. It was one of the things I was going to play with at Victoria’s cabin.” What was apparently an instruction book lay open on the counter beside her, but Garrick wasn’t up for marveling at Leah’s industriousness.
“You mean—I was hauling Chinese groceries in that sack?”
“Among other things.” Many of which she’d quickly put in the freezer, others of which were refrigerated, a few of which she’d questioned and thrown out.
“And a wok? I thought I was bringing you essentials.”
She shot him a second, even more nervous glance. He was angry. She had no idea why. “You asked me to tell you what I wanted. These were some of the things.”
He looked around for the other bags he’d carried, but they’d apparently been unloaded and stored—somewhere. Planting his hands on his hips, he glared at her. “What else did I cart through the rain?”
His tone was so reminiscent of the imperious one Richard had often used that Leah had to struggle not to cringe. She kept her voice steady, but it was small. “The wok. It was with my books in the Mickey Mouse bag. And some clothes.” She spared a fast glance at the faded jeans she’d put on. “I threw out the torn slacks. They were hopeless.” She was also wearing a pair of well-worn moccasins that had been in the duffel, but she hadn’t changed out of Garrick’s sweater. Now she wished she had.
“What was in the black tote? It was heavy as hell.”
At that moment, Leah would have given anything to be able to lie. She’d never been good at it; her eyes gave her away. Not that lying would have done any good in this case, since he w
ould learn the truth soon enough.
“A cassette player and tapes,” she mumbled.
“A what?”
She looked him in the eye and said more clearly, “A cassette player and tapes.”
“Oh-ho, no, you don’t! You’re not going to disturb my peace and quiet with raucous music!”
“It’s not raucous.”
“Then loud. I didn’t come up here to put up with that.”
Leah knew she should indulge him. After all, it was his cabin and he was doing her a favor by taking her in. But there’d been so much more between them that having him shout at her only raised her hackles. She’d heard enough shouting from Richard. When they divorced, she’d vowed never to be the butt of unreasonable mood swings again.
She’d thought Garrick was different.
“I’ll play it softly, or not at all while you’re here,” she stated firmly, “but if you’re gone for hours like you were today, I’ll enjoy it any way I want.”
“It bothered you that I left you alone, did it?” he demanded.
“It did not! You can go where you want, when you want and for however long you want. But if you’re not here, I’ll listen to my music. And anyway, in a few days I’ll be gone.” She took a shaky breath. “I may be invading your privacy, but, don’t forget, if it hadn’t been for you Victoria would have never sent me up here!”
That took Garrick aback. He hadn’t thought of it quite that way, but Leah had a point. For that matter, Leah often had a point and it was usually reasonable. Which made him feel all the more unreasonable.
Wheeling away, he strode off to hang his wet jacket on a hook, then marched back to the dresser by the bed, yanked his turtleneck jersey and heavy wool sweater over his head in one piece, tossed them heedlessly aside and began tugging out drawers in search of a replacement.
Leah’s throat went positively dry as she stared after him. All anger was forgotten in the face of his nakedness. Granted, it was only his back, but his cords hung low on his hips, presenting her with a view of skin that was breathtaking. There was nothing burly about his shoulders. They were broad, but every inch was hard flesh over corded sinew. The same was true of his arms and, for that matter, the rest of his torso. There wasn’t a spare ounce of fat in sight. His spine bisected symmetrical pockets of muscle that stretched and flexed as he bent over and tore through the drawer. His waist was lean, the skin there smooth. He wasn’t tanned, though she guessed that once the spring sun came he would be. He struck her as a man who’d be outside in good weather, shirtless.
Her insides burned, but jerking her eyes back to the contents of the wok, she realized with relief that that was all that had. She set the cover on the shallow pan with a hand that trembled, turned off the propane gas, then lifted the cover from a second pan, one of Garrick’s, and checked the rice.
Everything was ready. The food was cooked. The table was set. And Garrick was slouched on the sofa, wearing a battered sweatshirt, taking his sour mood out on the fire.
She debated leaving him alone. She could dish out the food and sit down. Surely he’d see that dinner was on the table and join her. Or would he?
Her approach was quiet and hesitant. “Garrick?”
His mouth rested against a fist. “Mmm?”
“I’m all set. If you’re hungry.” She pressed her damp palms to her jeans.
“Ydnnvtmakdnnn.”
“Excuse me?”
He raised his fist, but his words remained low and begrudging. “You didn’t have to make dinner.”
“I know.”
“What is it, anyway?”
“Braised chicken with black beans.”
He didn’t take his eyes from the fire. “I haven’t had Chinese food in four years. I’ve always hated it.”
Feeling inexplicably hurt, Leah turned away. She wasn’t all that hungry herself, all of a sudden, but she had no intention of letting her efforts go to waste. So she prepared a plate for herself, sat down and began to eat.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Garrick rise from the sofa. He went to the stove, clattered covers and sniffed loudly. She was struggling to swallow a small cube of chicken, when she heard the distinct sounds of food being dished out. The chicken slid down more easily.
Moments later, he took his place across from her. She didn’t look up but continued to eat, though she couldn’t have described what she was tasting.
“Not bad,” Garrick conceded. His normally raspy voice was gruffer than normal. He took another bite, chewed and swallowed. “What’s in it?”
“Ginger root, bamboo shoots, scallions, oyster sauce, sherry…”
“Not the kind of stuff that comes in cardboard takeout containers.”
“No.” She took a minute to concentrate on what she was eating and, to her relief, agreed with his assessment. It was good. She had nothing to be ashamed of, and that mattered to her, where Garrick was concerned. It was the first time she’d cooked for him. As a matter of pride, she’d wanted the results to be highly palatable.
They ate in silence. More than once, Leah had to bite her tongue to keep from voicing the questions on her mind. She wanted to know why he’d been so angry, what she’d done to cause it. She wanted to know what he had against music. She wanted to know when he’d eaten Chinese food from takeout containers and why he’d developed such an aversion to it. And she wanted to know where he’d been and what he’d been doing four years ago.
He didn’t offer any further conversation, though, and she didn’t dare start any for fear of setting him off. She liked the Garrick who was quiet and gentle, not the one who brooded darkly, or worse, growled at her.
She had no way of knowing that, at that moment, Garrick was disliking himself. He was disgusted with the way he’d behaved earlier, though his present behavior was only a marginal improvement. But he couldn’t seem to help himself. The more he saw of Leah, the more he liked her, and paradoxically, the more he resented her.
Chinese food. The mere words conjured up images of late nights on the set, where dinner was wolfed out of cartons scattered along an endless table at the rear of the studio. He’d barely known what he was eating. His stomach had inevitably been upset long before, and the best he’d been able to do was to wash whatever it was down with swigs of Scotch.
Chinese food. Another image came to mind, this one of a midnight date with a willowy blonde who’d been good enough to pick up the food on her way over to his place. He wouldn’t have bothered to pick her up. He’d known what she’d wanted and he’d delivered—crudely and with little feeling. The next morning, more than a little hung over, he’d retched at the smell of the food that remained in the cartons.
Chinese food. One last image. He’d been alone. No work, no friends. He’d been high on something or other, and he’d gone to the takeout counter and ordered enough for twelve, supposedly to look as though he were having a party. As though he were still important, still a star. He’d gone home, sat in his garish living room, stared at the leather sofas and the huge bags of food and had bawled like a baby.
“Garrick?”
Leah’s voice brought him back. His head shot up just as she passed an envelope across the table. Victoria’s letter. He glared at it for a minute before snatching it from her fingers. The legs of his chair scraped against the floor. He crossed the room quickly, slapped the unopened letter onto the top of the dresser, then dropped back into the sofa and resumed his brooding.
Quietly Leah began to clear the table. Her movements were slow, her shoulders slumped in defeat. It wasn’t the meal that caused her discouragement; she knew it had been good and that for a time Garrick had enjoyed what he’d eaten. She couldn’t even take offense at his brusque departure, because she knew he was hurting. She’d seen his eyes grow distant, seen the pain they’d held. Oh, yes, she knew he was hurting, but she didn’t know what to do about it, and that was the cause of her distress. She wanted to reach out, but she was afraid. She felt totally impotent.
When the
re was nothing left to do in the kitchen, she picked up a book—one of her own—and as unobtrusively as possible slid into her corner of the sofa. She couldn’t read, though. She was too aware of Garrick.
An hour passed. He looked at her. “You said there were clothes in the bags I brought.”
She glanced down at her jeans, then her moccasins.
“Besides those,” he muttered.
“There are others.” She knew he was complaining because she’d left on his sweater. She closed her fingers around a handful of the wool. “I’ll wash this and your long johns in the morning.”
He grunted and looked away. Another period of silence passed. He moved only to feed the fire. She moved only to turn an unread page.
Then his rough voice jagged into her again. “I can’t believe you sent me for books and tapes. You’ll need more than one change of clothes.”
“There were two in the duffel.”
“That’s not enough if you’re stuck here a while.”
“You have a washer. I’ll do fine. Besides, I have boots in the duffel. I can always go back to the car—”
“Boots? Why in the hell didn’t you put them on the other night?”
She drew her elbows in tighter. Strangely, this kind of criticism had been less hurtful coming from Richard. “I didn’t think the mud would be so bad.”
“You didn’t think period. Your car’s stuck in pretty good. That took some doing.”
“I’m not an expert—with cars or mud,” she argued, but she was shaking inside. She had no idea why he was harping at her this way. “I was only trying to get out—”
“By grinding the tires in deeper?”
“I was trying my best!”
Again he grunted. Again he looked away. Tension made the air nearly as heavy as her heart.
“You didn’t even lock the damn car!” he roared a short time later. “With your purse lying there, and all your supposed worldly possessions, you left the thing open!”
“I was too upset to think about that.”
“And you’re supposed to be a New Yorker?”
She slammed her book shut. “I’ve never had a car before. What is the problem, Garrick? You said yourself that no one moves in this kind of weather. Even if someone could, who in his right mind would be going to a burned out cabin? My things were safe, and if they weren’t, they’re only things.”
Crossed Hearts (Matchmaker Trilogy) Page 9