“I don’t think you’re …”
“Don’t you? You’ve made a quite a few insulting assumptions about me since we’ve met. Too fragile to kiss, remember that one?”
“Oh.” He grinned sheepishly. “Yeah.”
“And you could have saved yourself the repercussions of your guilty conscience today if you’d bothered to stick around long enough this morning for a little basic communication. You didn’t make love to me in a vacuum, you know! I was right there, participating my little heart out, and I think I find it offensive that you believe I’m so vain a few little love bites are going to throw me into a tailspin.” She eyed him sourly. “Or maybe that’s your own ego talking. Are you only gonna love me as long as I’m perfect?” Damn it, anyhow. Was she destined to keep picking men who were less interested in the total package than they were in the gift-wrapping?
Who the hell said anything about love? James wondered warily. He opened his mouth to set her straight, to warn her against building fantasies out of thin air, and instead heard himself saying indignantly, “Dammit, Magnolia, it had nothing to do with physical perfection or the lack of it. It was more a matter of … class distinctions.” Somehow, that came out sounding stupid. Damn. It sure as hell hadn’t felt stupid at the time. It had felt painful and confusing.
“What?” Aunie tossed her pillow aside and faced him squarely, seriously provoked. “Are you telling me, Mistah James T. Rydah, that I’m not good enough for you?” But, no, that simply didn’t make sense. Not given the way he kept trying to protect her, whether she needed protection or not.
Glints of moss green glared out at her from between narrowed blond lashes. “Don’t toy with me, Aunie.”
She suddenly remembered the sting of his hand on her rear end and the tone of his voice last night when she’d called him mister. “You think you’re not good enough for me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” But his voice was stiff.
“I’m not being ridiculous. Explain what you mean by class distinctions.”
“We come from different worlds, Magnolia. Haven’t you figured that out yet?” He was annoyed at having to point it out to her. “While you were going to country club dances in pretty little party dresses, I was wallowing in the dirt, rubbing shoulders with hookers and drug dealers.”
“So, what’s your point, Jimmy? If you’re saying that people can’t or don’t change, then you’re full of it up to your handsome green eyeballs. I’ve changed … and darn happy it makes me, too. I’m not the same person I used to be; I’m better because I’m useful now. And you … My God, look at what you’ve done with your life! You sure as heck aren’t associating with that sort of person now. You’re a famous cartoonist, for heaven’s sake; you own this beautiful building; you possess all sorts of skills that I can’t even begin to comprehend. The only thing the matter with you, James Ryder, is that damn overblown sense of responsibility of yours!”
“A sense of responsibility is a liability?”
“It is when you use it to make decisions concerning my body without botherin’ to consult me first!”
“Oh, shit, Aunie, are we back to that again?”
“Yes, we’re back to that. How come only you get to decide when we make love? I want equal say-so! I didn’t move halfway across the country just to hook up with another man who thinks I’m too damn dumb to know what’s good for me.”
James hauled her to her feet and bent down to stand eyeball to eyeball with her. “Don’t you ever compare me to that asshole!”
The honest outrage in his voice drained Aunie of her anger. She raised a hand and stroked his smooth cheek with conciliatory gentleness. “No,” she agreed. “You are nothin’ like Wesley. You’re such a fine man, James.” She cupped his jaw in her palm and raised her lips to bestow a sweet kiss on his mouth. Drawing back, she wiped a smudge of lipstick off his bottom lip with her thumb, looked at him with luminous brown eyes, and said sweetly, “But don’t you go expecting that my saying so entitles you to run my life.”
James laughed. “No, ma’am, I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Aunie snorted, skeptical of his easy capitulation. Then with a shrug, she reached down, grasped the hem of her sweater and the polo shirt beneath it, and whipped them over her head. Her hands went to the waistband of her jeans, but she hesitated, looking up at him. One delicate dark eyebrow shot up. “So, how about it?” she inquired: “You wanna see my matchin’ panties now, or what?”
James wrapped his hands around her waist, lifting her; and as usual anytime her legs were in the vicinity of his torso, they spread apart to wind around his hips. Holding onto his shoulders with both hands, she arched back from the waist and practically purred when his mouth pressed kisses from her throat to her shoulders, to her collarbone, down to the little tab that held her bra closed between her breasts. “Yeah,” he finally whispered hoarsely, rubbing his face in the shallow valley of her cleavage, his big hands gripping her round little bottom to bring more of her into range. “Let’s see ‘em.”
It wasn’t until the following Thursday that Aunie realized it had been awhile since she’d received any disturbing phone calls. She checked the time and date sheet that she used to mark down each call and saw that the last one had been logged at 12:37 A.M. on Saturday morning of the previous week.
She didn’t know what to make of it and was uncertain how to proceed. James, when she showed him the time sheet and explained the current lack of calls, did not share her indecision.
“We just keep on doing exactly what we’ve been doing,” he said peremptorily.
Her newfound, hard-won independence bristled at his tone. Chin elevated, she snapped, “There you go, trying to manage my life for me again! I’ll have you know, James T. Ry—”
The next thing she knew, she was flat on her back with James on his knees straddling her hips, pinning her wrists to the floor. He leaned over her until their faces were only inches apart. “This isn’t up for debate, Magnolia,” he informed her with cool finality.
Cheeks blazing with temper, dark eyes liquid and impossibly large, Aunie glared up at him. “Get off me, you lowdown, no-good, mannerless Yankee.” It was demanded in a tone loaded with well-bred disdain.
He grinned at her. He couldn’t help it; now that he knew she didn’t scorn his background, he loved it when she went all Southern belle on him. “Huhuh. Now quit squirmin’ around and listen up.” He rested more of his weight on her thighs when she ignored his command. “If your caller was from the college, it stands to reason that he was discouraged by the fact that you’re well-protected. Therefore, the escort remains.” He could tell by the way she quit bucking that she was beginning to think instead of react. He eased his weight a bit. “Now, if it’s old Wesley, the calls could have stopped for a number of reasons.”
“Such as?”
He really hated to say this, but it needed to be said. “Such as he’s in transit. And if he’s headed here, the self-defense lessons are more than necessary, Magnolia; they’re mandatory.”
She went perfectly still and the blood drained from her face. Her reaction made James wish he hadn’t raised the possibility, which in turn made him feel defensive. Why did she have to be so damned stubborn? He hadn’t wanted to confront her with the potentiality, but she always had to push, push, push. Just once, he wished she’d simply accept something he said without arguing about it.
Still …
“That’s worst-case scenario … and it’s only one possibility,” he said gruffly, reaching out to stroke the velvet-smooth skin of her cheek. His finger brushed back and forth over the tiny mole above her upper lip. “If it is Cunningham, he has to be intelligent enough to realize that your lawyer informed you of the break-in at his office. It could be he also recognizes the likelihood of your calls being traced and he’s just lying low for a while.”
“I hate this, Jimmy,” Aunie said wearily.
“I know, baby.” James eased his weight off her and rolled to the side. She remained in
the same position, only her head turning to maintain eye contact.
“Maybe,” she whispered in a voice that didn’t hold much hope, “it really was a chance caller who finally got bored.”
“Maybe it was,” James agreed without conviction. Propping his head up on one hand, he reached out his free hand to brush her dark, shiny hair away from her face. “But, Magnolia, honey, we sure as shit aren’t risking your safety on that assumption.”
Wesley pulled his Jaguar up to the curb and parked behind the realtor’s car. For a moment, he sat behind the wheel just staring impassively at the For Sale sign posted to one side of the walkway that led to the Atlanta house he had once shared with Aunie. Rage built inside him. Drawing a deep breath to help him conceal it, he climbed out of the car and joined the real estate agent.
She preceded him up the walk, flashing him a smile over her shoulder. “As you can see, Mr. West,” she said with professional enthusiasm, addressing him by the fictitious name he’d given her, “this is one of Atlanta’s premier neighborhoods. You won’t find a more desirable address.”
That’s why I bought the damned house in the first place, you stupid bitch.
Wesley tuned out most of her sales pitch as they inspected the house. Fury was escalating inside him as they moved from room to room. “I thought the premises had been vacated,” he snapped in the cool, impatient tone he habitually reserved for employees and other inferiors.
“It has been,” she replied in confusion. Then understanding dawned. “Oh! The furnishings. Now, this is a real bonus! All of it”—she waved her hand—“can be purchased for a song. Isn’t it simply lovely? It was designed by one of the most exclusive designers.” She mentioned a name and gave him a coy smile. “Perhaps you’ve heard of her?”
Heard of her? He’d discovered her. And the acquisition of every furnishing, as the realtor’s term was, had been personally supervised by him. This house had always been a showplace.
He had filled it with treasures and now Aunie had it all up for sale. At bargain basement prices, as if the acquisitions that were his life’s work were no more consequential than flea market castoffs. It was a slap in the face.
Just one more for which, very soon now, she was going to pay.
* * *
Several times during the past few nights she had told him she loved him.
James couldn’t be positive, of course, that it hadn’t been said merely to gain a little sexual relief. That certainly wasn’t outside the realm of possibility; after all, each time she’d whispered it had been in the heat of the moment. He brooded about it as he paced his apartment.
James had always thought he knew a great deal about women. When it came to one like Aunie, however, he admitted he didn’t know jack, and his prior experiences weren’t much help in this particular situation. Except for his mother, who had never been home much, he’d never lived with a woman in his life. Hell, he thought with automatic defensiveness, he wasn’t actually living with a woman now.
Yeah. Right.
Okay, he was practically living with her.
For perhaps the first time in his life, he had no idea what he was going to do next. He’d thought that once he got in her pants … Okay, the truth was he hadn’t thought beyond that, hadn’t even allowed himself to think of that much. But if he had given the matter some thought, he would have expected to be quickly bored.
That’s the way it had always worked in the past.
He sure as hell hadn’t expected this constant neediness, and it grated on him. About the only thing he managed to keep inviolate these days was his apartment, using it when she was out or at school, always meeting her in her place, never in his. Big deal. He kept her out; but the minute he knew she was home, he was down the hall, panting to be with her. Christ. Why couldn’t he stay away?
He felt so different with her. Territorial, possessive, protective, all sorts of emotions he never in a million years would have associated with himself. Even sex was different.
Now, there was a masterpiece of understatement—sex was especially different. Always before, he’d picked big girls who liked it rowdy and a little rough. He showed them a good time and then he was out the door. From the first time he’d contemplated what it would be like with Aunie, however, he’d assumed he’d need to exercise more than a little customary care with her. To his surprise, she’d proved to like it rowdy and a little rough, too. Sometimes. But then the other night, when he’d tweaked a nipple a little too enthusiastically, he’d learned that what excited her one day could hurt her the next.
He’d whipped his hand back guiltily at her little gasp of pain, but she had reached for it with both hands and pressed it over her entire breast. “It’s okay,” she’d whispered. “They’re a little tender tonight, is all. Just hold it like this.”
For the first time in a long time, he’d remembered her fragility. He knew it drove her crazy when he referred to it, especially if he were foolish enough to intimate it might prevent her from accomplishing a given goal. She seemed to think she was ten feet tall. And most of the time, her sturdiness had surprised him. But the truth was, there were times when she was fragile.
He hadn’t been able to handle the thought of hurting her and so he’d made love to her very carefully that night and very, very slowly. His reward was discovering that slow made her wild.
God, it had been so sweet: her hands sliding restlessly, digging into his back, pulling his ponytail, gripping his buttocks while she thrust her pelvis sharply upward. Her breath coming in shuddery little exhalations; her heavy-lidded dark eyes losing focus as they stared at him. And then the whispers, starting slow and sweet, escalating in urgency. “Jimmy? Oh God, James? Oh Jimmy, please … Uhhh? … Oh Gawd, I love you, Jimmy, I love you, Jimmy, I love … Oh Gawd!”
He’d felt like the top of his head was blowing off and he’d come in violent, scalding jets. And ever since then, he’d found himself making love to her slowly—God, so slowly. Holding back until his eyes began to cross and his balls turned blue.
Holding back because he knew if he did, then ultimately he’d hear her say, “I love you, Jimmy.” Despising his desperate need to hear it.
Did she mean it? Or was it just some knee-jerk reaction, words she felt were necessary to express before she got off?
He always bottled up his instinctive response. He kissed her with savage concentration; he swallowed hard; he roared his satisfaction to the walls, but he bit back the words that dammed up in his throat every friggin’ time.
God, I love you, Magnolia.
Why was it so impossible to admit? It just was. He could not, would not, say the words aloud. He simply couldn’t. Not as long as he still saw a terror of him in her eyes every time he made her practice her self-defense.
It was getting to the point where he hated those damned sessions as much as she did. She was turning into a right fine little fighter, but he found her fear of him acutely painful.
It had to be that way, though. She wouldn’t flat-out fight, not fight the way she might one day need to do, unless he could convincingly duplicate Cunningham’s probable actions. There was no point in teaching her to defend herself if all those lessons went up in smoke in the face of an unexpected panic. So he generated a fear, then taught her to function through it.
But he hated it. And he knew instinctively that if he didn’t keep those words locked tight in his chest, he would no longer be capable of pulling it off.
He didn’t know how to deal with the confusion of all these raw emotions clawing away inside of him, but the animal instinct that had always served him so well urged him to protect himself. On a deep, rarely acknowledged level, he simply didn’t trust it to last. Guys like him did not end up with women like Aunie Franklin. Sooner or later, he was sure, she was going to take a good long look at their differences; and when she did, she would probably be packed and gone so fast, he wouldn’t see her for dust. So he prevented her from making any memories in his apartment, and he held a part of hi
mself aloof—protection against future pain.
As for the here and now … about all he could do was bite his tongue and swallow back words that were better left unsaid.
“So, you haven’t had a call in … how long?” “Three weeks.” Aunie had her eyes closed and her face raised to the sun. She and Mary were spending their lunch hour on the grass plaza in front of Performance Hall at school. This was the third day that the weather had reached the midseventies. There was a light breeze and students lounged in various stages of undress all over the plaza, working on their tans. Mary was already a pretty golden color. Aunie merely enjoyed the warmth, since every exposed inch of her skin was slathered with SPF 40 sun block. Without it, she’d burn, blister, and peel. In her next life, she was coming back as a six-footer with an olive complexion.
“That’s good,” Mary commented. There was a moment of silence, then she asked, “So, why don’t you look relaxed?”
Aunie’s eyes snapped open and she turned her head to stare at her friend. “Because James won’t let me. God, Mary, I could really use a break from all this, but he just keeps pushin’, pushin’, pushin’. What’s Bobby’s phone number? If you’ve gotta fight, what’s the most vulnerable area on a man’s body?” She snapped her fingers. “Quick. Otis’s phone number!” She rubbed the little wrinkle that had popped up between her delicate, dark eyebrows. “It seems like he’s either making love to me or tryin’ his damnedest to drive me beyond endurance with his little quizzes and tests. Do you know that we’ve never even been on a real date? He’s all but livin’ with me and he’s never once taken me out.”
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