by Anne Mather
And her eyes were wide and unnaturally bright. Almost as if she was on the verge of tears.
Dammit, what had happened? What had that old clergyman said to her? If he'd made a pass at her, if he'd
touched her, he'd— Yeah, right. Jake arrested his fertile imagination at that point. This was nothing to do with him. Even if the old man had raped her—which was taking his suspicions to unbelievable lengths—what could he do about it? She wasn't his responsibility, and he doubted she'd welcome any interference he might make in her affairs.
'Um—Mrs Blackwood said you were spending the evening sorting donations for some fair that's to be held at the church, is that right?' he persisted, when she didn't answer him, and Eve expelled a tremulous breath.
'The autumn fair,' she agreed in a low voice.
Jake nodded. 'Well, you look cold,' he said, when she didn't elaborate. 'Come and sit down. It's much warmer by the fire.'
'Oh, I—I might just go up to bed,' she said, declining his invitation. 'I am rather tired.' She turned towards the door. 'G—goodnight.'
Despite the urgent voice inside him that was warning him not to get involved, Jake couldn't let her go like this. Moving with more speed than he'd have believed himself capable of in his present condition, he strode across the room before she could get the door fully open, and slammed his palm against the dark panels.
The door thudded shut again, trapping her inside, and she turned to look at him with wide—fearful?—eyes.
'What—what do you think you're doing?' she got out, her voice betraying the panic she was feeling. 'If you
touch me—'
'I'm not going to touch you!' he exclaimed, annoyed to find himself in the position of having to offer a defence. 'I'm concerned about you. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think something's happened to upset you. Did someone lay his hands on you? Is that why you're jumping like a cat just because I stopped you from opening the door?'
Eve turned, but she did so without putting any space between her and the wooden panels behind her. She was obviously making every effort to keep as far away from him as possible, and, despite dismissing his worst fears earlier, he was now firmly convinced that—what was it Mrs Blackwood had called him? Reverend Murray?— Murray had assaulted her in some way.
'No—no one's upset me except you,' she said, but he could hear the tremor in her voice. 'I wanted to leave and you stopped me. What am I supposed to think?'
Jake blew out an aggravated breath. 'Well, you've nothing to fear from me,' he said shortly, straightening up and putting a significant distance between them. 'I merely wanted to help.'
'To help?' There was a note of hysteria in her voice now. 'You can't help me.' She swallowed. 'Nobody can.'
It was a strange response, but Jake didn't have the energy to pursue it right now. 'If you say so,' he said wearily, and she tilted her chin.
'May I go?'
'Well, I won't stop you again.'
'Good.'
There was defiance in her tone, and, wrapping her coat closer about herself, she turned towards the door.
But she didn't open it. Instead, despite taking hold of the handle, she remained motionless for several tense seconds, apparently staring at the wall. Then, to his amazement, she slumped against the door, sliding down until she was huddled at his feet.
Jake moved then. Although he still couldn't be sure she'd welcome his assistance, he had to do something.
Dropping down onto his haunches, he put out his hand and tried to turn her to face him.
She resisted at first, flinching away as if he'd attempted to assault her, and his anger towards Murray escalated to even greater heights. He was sure now that the man was responsible for her distress, and he wanted to wring his scrawny neck.
Eventually he succeeded in drawing her away from the door, and when he saw the tears streaming down her face he couldn't stifle a savage oath. 'I'll kill that bastard,' he muttered, hauling her into his arms, and although there was still some resistance, ultimately she subsided against him with a shaky sigh of defeat.
She was trembling, he could feel it. And she felt so cold, despite the heavy overcoat she had clutched about
her. Her wet face was pressed against his sweater, and as she breathed soft strands of silky dark hair brushed his chin.
Almost involuntarily, it seemed, he turned his mouth against her hair, tasting its lemony essence, inhaling its fragrance deep into his lungs. His hand was at the nape of her neck, and the temptation to tip her face up to his and taste her mouth, too, was almost overwhelming.
He scowled. Was he no better than Murray? he asked himself disgustedly. He wasn't thinking of her feelings any more. He was just thinking about himself. Just because the knowledge that she was cradled between his spread thighs was giving him a hard-on of painful proportions was no excuse for this depravity. He was only in the house because Cassandra had invited him, for God's sake, and he could just imagine her reaction if she could see him now.
He needed to get Eve to the fire, he reminded himself grimly. Not just because she was physically cold, but because she seemed chilled both inside and out. She needed heat, and brandy, not necessarily in that order. And he could do with a shot of Scotch himself.
In the ordinary way, lifting her slim, athletic form would have been easy for him. She was at least forty
pounds lighter than the old lady, and infinitely less cumbersome.
But his arms shook as he lifted her off the floor, and he cursed the fact that two days in bed had left him
as weak as a baby. Still, in spite of her opposition, he managed to carry her across the room and deposit her in the armchair he'd been occupying when she came in. Then, trusting her not to try and run out on him again, he walked across to the drinks cabinet on slightly uncertain legs.
Eve watched him from beneath lowered lids, scrubbing her cheeks with a tissue she'd found in her pocket. She didn't want to consider what a pathetic fool she'd made of herself, and, no matter how understanding Romero had been, she'd allowed him to get way too close to her. After what had happened with Harry she ought to have had more sense.
But she hadn't known how she was going to react when he'd guessed that Harry had upset her. His immediate anger with the other man, his instinctive belief that whatever had happened wasn't her fault, had broken down the guard she'd kept around her emotions all these years. She couldn't remember the last time she'd cried like that, and although she could make excuses for it, it still didn't alter the fact that Jake had exposed a vulnerability she'd tried so hard to erase.
He came back with two of her grandmother's crystal tumblers and held one out to her. 'It's only Scotch, I'm
afraid,' he said, his hand not entirely steady. 'I couldn't find any brandy.'
Eve was compelled to take the glass from him, though she hated even the smell of whisky. She guessed lifting her had robbed him of what little strength he'd had left, and she couldn't turn him down.
'Thanks.'
He nodded, bringing his own glass to his lips and taking a steady gulp. 'God, I need this.'
Eve glanced up at him. 'I'm not sure that drinking whisky is wise in your present condition,' she said, dipping her finger into her glass and tasting the raw spirit.
She grimaced, only just managing to hold back a moan of distaste. It was no better in small doses. 'You're supposed to be recuperating.'
Jake looked down at her with a laconic gaze. 'Yeah, well, this stuff will do me more good than all the hot
cocoa in the world,' he replied drily. 'You, too. Drink it up.'
'Me?' Eve shuddered. 'I can't drink this. It tastes horrible!'
'Pretend it's medicine,' advised Jake, not taking no for an answer. 'It'll warm you up.'
'I am warm now.'
Eve proved it by pushing the duffel off her shoulders, and for a moment he was transfixed by the pure curve of her nape rising above the round neck of her tee shirt. The shirt was long-sleeved, and a dusty pink in colour, and blended
well with the tight jeans whose waistband dipped below her navel. But he hardly noticed what she was wearing. Once again he'd been treated to a glimpse of her delectably smooth bare skin, and the arousal he'd felt earlier manifested itself again with record speed.
Thankfully she was too busy pulling her tee shirt down over her midriff to notice the sudden bulge in his pants, and, putting his empty glass aside, he took her glass from her and swallowed its contents in one gulp. Then, squatting down beside her to hide his embarrassment, he said, 'Are you going to tell me what happened?'
She seemed startled by his question. Perhaps she'd hoped the Scotch would divert him—or her amateur attempt to focus his attention on his health. Either way, it hadn't worked. If he managed to put thoughts of her naked out of his mind, he was instantly reminded of her dipping a finger into her glass. God, did she have any idea how provocative that action was? Somehow he doubted it, yet there was an odd look of wary perception in her eyes.
'What happened when?' she countered now, and Jake guessed she was still hoping to avoid a confrontation. She grimaced. 'I must have got really chilled. I don't usually fall apart like that.'
'Eve!' Ignoring her immediate withdrawal, he put out his hand and captured her chin between his thumb and
forefinger. 'Your falling apart, as you put it, had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the
Reverend Murray. Just tell me what the old fool did, for God's sake. Did he hurt you?'
Eve tried to jerk her chin away from his hand, and when that didn't work she adopted a disdainful stare. 'Harry isn't old,' was all she said, in a scornful voice. 'He's probably younger than you are.'
Jake let her go then, surging to his feet in angry disbelief.
What the hell was she saying? That while he'd been picturing her at the mercy of some perverted old
lecher, she'd actually spent the evening with a man who might conceivably have expected a different response to his advances?
'So what really happed?' he demanded, looking down at her coldly, unable to hide the resentment in his gaze.
'A lovers' fight? A disagreement? Or has he dumped you for someone else?'
Eve winced as if he'd struck her, and all the earlier empathy he'd felt on her behalf came flooding back with
renewed strength. Dammit, he hadn't been mistaken.
Something had happened, something bad, and he'd only made it worse with his crass accusations.
'Eve—' he began, but she was already getting to her feet, gathering her coat against her, looking anywhere but at him. God, he thought, how could he have been so stupid?
It would have taken more than a quarrel with her boyfriend to destroy the cool self-possession she always
exhibited towards him.
'Eve, I'm sorry,' he started again, but she wasn't listening, moving past him with her eye on the door and the
evident intention of putting as much space between them as possible.
He expelled a harsh breath. He couldn't let her go like this. He had to make her see that he'd felt betrayed when she'd told him that Murray was a young man, that his amateurish attempt at chivalry had been blunted by the realisation that she was—might be—involved with someone.
The ramifications of that statement were too complicated to consider now. Nor did he choose to remember
that Eve's affairs—her well-being—had nothing to do with him. Or what he was admitting by feeling as he did. He just knew that if he allowed her to walk out of this room without accepting his apology he'd never forgive himself.
Gritting his teeth against the anticipation of failure, he reached out and snagged a corner of her coat sleeve as she brushed past him. 'Wait!'
She yanked at the sleeve, and when she couldn't get him to release it, she simply dropped the coat on the floor and stumbled over it. Swearing, he stepped over the coat and managed to catch her wrist instead. 'Eve, please,' he said imploringly, forcing her to a standstill. 'You've got to give me a chance to explain.'
'What's to explain?' He could only marvel at the strength of will that forced her to lift her head and meet
his gaze. 'I assume you think it's all right for a man to maul a woman he's supposed to have some respect for?'
'No!' Jake was appalled. 'Is that what he did?' He sought for a suitable way to describe it that didn't involve
mentioning sex while he entertained methods of revenge all over again. 'I guess he—took advantage of you, right?'
Eve looked as if she didn't want to answer him. But then she blurted out painfully, 'He kissed me!'
She knew what he would think as soon as she said it.
After all, what was a simple kiss between friends? How could she explain the outrage she'd felt when Harry had grabbed her and pressed his wet lips against hers without sounding paranoid? Jake knew nothing of her history. And she certainly had no intention of telling him now.
'He kissed you?' he echoed, and although he was trying to keep the incredulity out of his voice she knew it was there, just beneath the surface.
'Yes, he kissed me,' she said, trying to stare him out and not succeeding. 'I suppose you think that makes me
some kind of a screwball, getting het-up over something so—so unimportant.'
Jake's eyes narrowed. 'But it wasn't unimportant to you,' he said, with more shrewdness than she'd given him credit for. 'Was it?'
Eve put up a nervous hand and tugged on a strand of hair that had escaped from her braid. 'It wasn't the kiss,' she admitted at last. 'It was what came after.' She didn't want to go on, but he had been kind and he deserved some kind of an explanation. 'He— Because I objected, he accused me of preferring someone else.'
Jake stared at her warily. Dammit, he'd been imagining she had few friends, holed up here with an argumentative old woman, but now it appeared that not only did she have an admirer, she apparently had more than one. It shouldn't, but it irritated the hell out of him.
'I see,' he said at last, and, realising he still had her wrist in a death grip, relaxed his hold. 'And do you?
Prefer someone else?'
Eve's face flamed. 'No.'
'So you just—what? Don't like men in general?'
'No!' Eve snatched her wrist out of his grasp and rubbed it vigorously, as if to remove any trace of his scent
from her skin. 'I just don't like being—touched.'
'I can see that.' Jake's voice was harsh to his ears, and he wondered if it was the unaccustomed amount of Scotch he'd consumed in a short time that was constricting his vocal cords. 'So, is this how you reacted when Murray touched you? Because I have to say it's damn demeaning to have someone behave as if you had some lethal infection.'
'I didn't.' Despite her efforts to maintain a semblance of composure, the accusation caught her on the raw. 'You don't understand.'
'So make me.'
'I can't.'
'Or won't.'
She shook her head. 'Why should you care about me?'
'Damned if I know, but I do.'
The atmosphere was suddenly electric. Jake didn't know if he was imagining it, or whether some chemical
reaction had been activated by his words. Whatever—and with a lack of restraint he deplored later—he moved until there was barely an inch of space between them. Then, looking down into her startled face, he said thickly, 'Touch me. I promise I won't bite.'
Eve shook her head, but she didn't move away. 'This is crazy.'
'Agreed.' His eyes travelled lower, to the tantalizing glimpse of olive skin exposed again above her navel. 'But just do it, eh?' He grimaced. 'To save my feelings if nothing else.'
Eve's breath came out in a rush. 'I don't believe anything I've done has hurt your feelings,' she said, the tip
of her tongue appearing to moisten her lower lip. 'But if it has, I'm sorry.'
'Prove it.'
'How?'
How indeed? Jake hoped he wasn't being too ambitions in thinking he could cure something that had obviously been some years in
the making. He had no real experience of phobias or psychological problems. He just sensed that whatever major hang-ups she had, they weren't going to go away by simply ignoring them.
'Come closer,' he said, hoping he wasn't being too optimistic in thinking he could control the situation.
Just standing close to her like this, inhaling the womanly scents of her body, was amazingly erotic. Images of the hot, steamy sex they could have shared if the circumstances had been different were enough to make him dizzy. And it was becoming increasingly hard to remember exactly who she was and why he was here.
'I think I should leave now,' she said abruptly, and Jake wondered if she'd read his mind. 'Thank you for—for listening to me. And you're right. I probably overreacted.
In his defence, I have to say that Harry's never done anything to upset me before.'
To hell with Harry! Jake only just stopped himself from saying it out loud. He'd be happy if he never heard the man's name again.
'I don't recall saying you'd overreacted,' he said instead, his hands balling into fists at his sides. 'And I don't
know what the bastard said, because you won't tell me me.'
'It wasn't important,' she insisted, taking a significant step back from him. Jake's hands rose almost automatically to prevent her from moving away.
'It was important enough to make you cry,' he reminded her savagely, and before he could prevent it his
hands had settled on the bared skin at her waist.
He didn't know who was the most shocked—herself or him. He hadn't intended to touch her; dammit, she'd just spent the last fifteen minutes explaining that she didn't like to be touched. But as soon as his fingers met skin that was soft and warm and unbelievably smooth, any doubts he'd had about the sanity of what he was about to do went out of the window.
'Don't,' she said, the word torn from her lips, and he thought how pointless the protest was. In her agitation to avoid him her chest was heaving, and the hard peaks of her breasts were clearly visible beneath her tee shirt. She was irresistible, he thought. Irresistible and available.
And, abandoning any attempt at playing the hero, he bent his head and covered her lips with his.