by Anne Stuart
"I realize that. What room?" He was mockingly patient, and his hand on her arm was inexorable, the skin seeming to burn her flesh.
"My room. The one under the eaves," she clarified. "Do you have any problem with that?"
"As a matter of fact, I do. That's my bedroom—it has been since I was born. I'd like it back."
"No."
"No?" he echoed politely. "I'm not sure that I take no for an answer. That's my bedroom and my bed, and I'm going to sleep in it. Preferably alone."
Now why should that have stung? The last thing in the world she wanted to do was fend off a lust-crazed Springer. But still his words smarted, and she could feel her cheeks flush with color at his insulting drawl.
"Do you expect me to move all my stuff?" she questioned coldly.
"You can leave it in my bedroom if you want to—it won't make any difference to me. I would have thought you'd prefer more privacy when you dress."
"How long are you planning to stay?" she asked for the twenty-fourth time, still not really expecting an answer. "Don't you have a job that you have to get back to?"
He smiled then, that cool, nasty little smile that was becoming so familiar. "I'm on sabbatical, little mother. All I have to do is relax and make the acquaintance of Peter Kinsey's son."
"Stop it, Springer!" There was the ragged edge of hysteria in her voice, and she swallowed it with difficulty. "Please, just... stop it."
The punishing hand released her arm; he leaned back against the wall and surveyed her, a distant expression on his face. But he said nothing. Evidently he felt he'd said enough for the time being. He just stood there, watching her, waiting for his taunting to take effect.
"I'll take a change of clothes for tonight, and move the rest of the stuff tomorrow morning," she said after a long pause. "If that's all right with you."
"Just peachy," he drawled, unmoved by the look of absolute hatred she shot him then. "Take your time."
That had been one of many mistakes, she had realized as she sat fully clothed on her bed, wide awake, as it drew nearer to midnight. There was no way she could sneak back in there and pack enough clothes to see her through the next few weeks. And she didn't have enough money to buy new clothes—all her meager savings account needed to be stretched as far as possible, until she decided what she was going to do.
She hadn't even decided why she had to go, or where. But the threat in Springer MacDowell's presence was palpable, she was a complete nervous wreck, and there was no way she and her son were going to continue on in the same house. Once she got away, had some breathing space, then she could think more clearly.
Matthew, bless his heart, slept soundly as she gathered all the clothes she could stuff into the diaper bag and lifted him into her arms. The house was silent-she could only hope Springer was a heavy sleeper. She really didn't know—the nights she had spent with him hadn't involved much sleeping.
The damned floorboards squeaked as she crept down the hallway, and she halted, breathless, motionless, waiting for the sound of his footsteps above them, the flood of light from the open door. Matthew shifted in her arms, snuffling, and the bag slid down to her elbow, dragging at her.
But there was no sound from above—all was darkness—and she breathed a silent sigh of relief, continuing her flight. Jessica felt like a disgraced daughter fleeing her Victorian father's wrath, and the slightly hysterical giggle that welled up in her at the thought threatened to spill over and betray her. Just a few more minutes, she promised herself. And then I'll be away.
Matthew still slept that wonderfully heavy sleep he'd been blessed with since he was only three weeks old, and he barely stirred as she fastened him into the car seat. Her hands were shaking with panic and relief as she climbed into the driver's seat, fastened her seat belt, and turned the key.
Nothing happened. Not a whir, not a faint whine, not even a grumble. Just a little tiny click, and then that same, roaring silence.
There was a quiet little whimper, and Jessica realized with some surprise that it had come from her own throat and not her sleeping son. She tried the key again, knowing nothing would happen, and her foresight was rewarded. Another click.
She didn't even hesitate. Springer's pride and joy was parked beside the Subaru in the underground garage. Once, years ago, one of her sister Maren's boyfriends had shown her how to hot-wire her aging VW when she'd lost her keys. With luck she could still remember. How different could a 1963 Lotus Europa be from a 1967 VW Beetle?
She was scrambling around under the dashboard, looking for a lever to release the sleek, low hood, and having very little luck, when a large hand came down on her shoulder, dragging her from the car with a definite absence of gentleness. She was dragged upright before she could do more than shriek, and found herself looking into Springer's mocking face.
"Looking for something, Jessie?"
He wasn't wearing much, and for a moment Jessica wondered if he'd done it on purpose. The faded jeans clung to his mile-long legs, his tanned torso was bare, his arms long and muscled, his hands velvet-covered steel as they held her.
She wasn't going to whimper and squirm; she wasn't going to lie. "There's something wrong with my car," she said evenly meeting his gaze with a certain fearlessness that he might have admired if he hadn't seemed to hate her so much.
"That was my car you were ferreting around in," he observed politely.
"I was going to borrow it."
"And how were you going to do that? I had the only set of keys."
"I was going to hot-wire it. But I couldn't find how to open the hood."
There was no question of it, a faint, reluctant admiration did filter through his eyes for a brief moment. "You do believe in living dangerously, don't you?" His hands released her, and she felt the blood flow back through the cramped muscles. If he didn't watch it, she'd end up looking like an abused wife.
"I don't suppose you could help me find out what's wrong with my car," she suggested boldly. "It just makes a clicking noise when I try to start it. I can't imagine—"
"The distributor cap is disconnected."
She looked at him doubtfully. "You think so? I haven't had any trouble with it before. Will it cost a lot to have it fixed? What if it's something else?"
"It's the distributor cap," he repeated patiently. "I know because I'm the one who disconnected it. I thought you might have a midnight escape in mind, so I figured I'd better be prepared. I'll reconnect it tomorrow, after we talk."
She looked at him then, a slow, steady look that held murder in it. "What are you trying to do to me, Springer?" she asked quietly. "Are you trying to drive me crazy so you can commit me to a nuthouse and take my baby?"
"You've been watching too many old movies." A slow smile lit his face, and if it wasn't filled with the devastating charm she remembered, at least it was missing some of its heretofore lethal quality. "Though now that you mention it, it's not a bad idea."
"It's a lousy idea."
"Perhaps," he allowed. "After all, what would I want with Peter Kinsey's son?"
"Stop it. You knew before you came here whose child he was," she said hoarsely.
"I did. Peter and I happened to run into each other in New York, and we had a long talk. About a great many things, you in particular. He told me he never slept with you."
"Is this the time or place to go into all this?" she demanded, shifting nervously.
"Oh, I don't know." He leaned against his car, crossing his arm across his tanned, smooth chest. "This seems as good a time as any. Matthew's asleep, no one's likely to interrupt us. Why don't we discuss your past love life?"
"Why don't you go to hell?"
"Why didn't you sleep with Peter, Jessica? You were engaged to him."
"Maybe I didn't want to," she shot back. The lone bare light bulb was attracting all sorts of moths from the opened garage doors, and out of the corner of her eye she watched them bat against the light, helplessly attracted to that which would destroy them. She felt
a sudden, gloomy kinship.
"Then why did you go to bed with me?" he persisted.
She looked at him squarely in those unfathomable, condemning eyes of his. "I don't remember having much choice in the matter."
It had the desired effect. "Damn your soul to hell, Jessica. I've never forced a woman in my life, and I sure as hell didn't force you. If you were possessed of any honesty at all, you'd know that. But you seem to have an amazing capacity for self-deception. Sometimes I wonder if you even realized that Matthew was mine."
There, it was out in the open. She didn't like hearing it said, didn't like it at all. Somehow hearing the words seemed to make them inescapable, as if, if they'd never been said, it wouldn't have been true. "I knew," she said in a quiet voice. "I just didn't choose to think about it."
"Didn't choose to think about it," he echoed marveling. "How many things does it suit you not to choose to think about? Anything unpleasant, anything not a part of your perfect, self-contained little fantasy world? The Ice Princess and her heir apparent. I don't want a child of mine brought up with so little regard for reality."
"What do you plan to do about it?" Marianne would help her, she thought belatedly. She could borrow the Toyota and drive it till it died. Andrew would help her. Maybe. Men had a nasty habit of sticking together.
He read her far too well, she thought. "I'm not sure yet. I only saw Peter yesterday—up till then I didn't really have any idea. You had me convinced when you were down in New York. I think Mother must have guessed. At least, she didn't seem that surprised."
"You told her?" Jessica was horrified.
"I told her."
"And I suppose she plans to help you take him away from me," she said bitterly.
Springer laughed. "You're paranoid, too. I have no intention of taking Matthew away from you, or even trying. I just don't plan on leaving him entirely to your tender mercies."
"He's mine," she cried.
"Damn you, he's mine, too. You're going to have to face up to that and any other little unpleasantnesses you've been avoiding."
"Why the hell should I? It's my life, and you have absolutely nothing to do with it."
"We happen to share a child," he reminded her grimly. "And that makes your life my business. That also makes this house part mine, too, and I intend to avail myself of it."
"For how long?" It was the twenty-seventh time she'd asked it, and this time she got an answer.
"Until I trust you."
"How long will that take?"
"I have no idea. It may take years. I have the time to waste. You're going to have to accustom yourself to it, little mother. The sooner you do, the sooner I'll be gone."
"I'll accustom myself to it," she said grimly.
A slow grin lit his face, and Jessica felt an unexpected tightening in her stomach. "I knew you'd see reason," he drawled. "In the meantime, why don't you take our son back upstairs and put him to bed? We can continue this conversation tomorrow morning."
"I didn't think you were going to let me carry him again." she mumbled, moving toward the car.
"Sure I will. You've got to realize that I've got three months to catch up on. I'm bound to want to hold him and feed him in the beginning. It will wear off soon enough, and you'll be nagging at me to change the diapers and put him down for a nap."
She didn't like the homey, domesticated sound of
that, any more than she liked that sudden, almost forgotten warmth in the pit of her stomach. "How long are you planning to stay?" Number twenty-eight.
He finally took pity on her. "A month, perhaps. Maybe two. Maybe three. It all depends. You don't need to worry that I'll put a cramp in your style. I intend to have guests up; you won't have to curtail your social life, either."
"How thoughtful," she murmured.
"Yes, I thought so. You want any help with him?"
"No, thank you. Matthew and I will do just fine by ourselves," she said angrily.
"Don't count on it."
Matthew went back down in his crib with not much more than a whimper. Jessica stood there for a long moment, staring down at her sleeping child. "What are we going to do, Matthew?" she whispered. Matthew slept on.
She didn't run into Springer's tall, sparsely dressed figure as she made her way to the front bedroom. She could be grateful for that, she told herself as she stripped off her jeans and sweater and crawled beneath sheets. It was one of the few blessings in a cursed day. And the worse curse of all was the most unexpected. That sudden flash of wanting that had swept over her when he'd smiled his wry, charming smile down in the basement garage. And no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't wipe that memory, that wanting, from her stubborn brain. It was going to be a hellish two months.
Chapter Twenty-nine
Bright sunlight was streaming in the guest-room window. With a muffled moan Jessica dove beneath the patchwork quilt in a vain quest for darkness and sleep. As long as Matthew was quiet she could sleep; her subconscious had instilled that particular rule, enabling her to grab the miscellaneous moments of sleep offered her.
But no comfort awaited her. The bed was different, lumpy, and there were no sheets on it. The bright sunlight was coming from the wrong side, not the side her windows were on, and Matthew should have been demanding a clean diaper and a bottle hours ago. Flinging back the threadbare quilt, she sat bolt upright and stared at the pretty, anonymous confines of the front bedroom. What the hell had Springer done with her son?
She didn't pause long enough to throw on clothes, didn't hesitate for an instant. She nearly went headfirst down the stairs in her panic, and the sight of his empty crib did nothing for her state of mind. By the time she raced into the kitchen she was practically speechless with fright.
Springer was sitting on the kitchen stool, his faded jeans riding low on his hips, his chest bare beneath the unbuttoned blue flannel shirt. He was holding Matthew with a relaxed, obviously experienced grip while he fed him, and he raised his head slowly, those distant brown eyes of his looking her up and down with a slow, measuring glance. "Something wrong?" he greeted her casually enough.
It was at that moment she realized exactly what she was wearing. She'd been too tired and depressed to put on nightclothes the night before. She'd fallen asleep in a pair of cotton bikini panties and a skimpy French-cut T-shirt, and that's what she was still wearing.
She had two alternatives. She could shriek, blush and race back upstairs, not coming back down until she was properly clothed and some of this ridiculously prudish embarrassment faded. Or she could continue on into the kitchen and act as if nothing was out of the ordinary.
And nothing particularly was. She wasn't overly modest, or ashamed of her body. If it had been a stranger, or someone like Andrew Cameron, she wouldn't have been embarrassed. But it was Springer, who'd seen her in far less, and she was determined to tough it out.
"I guess I overslept," she murmured, moving into the kitchen with an attempt at nonchalance. If only he wouldn't keep looking at her with such obvious amusement, she thought.
"Matthew and I thought we'd let you sleep in. I could hear you tossing and turning for hours last night."
"Sorry if I kept you awake," she said coolly, moving to the open kitchen door in search of a cooling breeze.
"The walls have always been thin, and that bed's springs are pre-Civil War," he murmured lazily, still watching her. "There's coffee on the stove if you want some."
She didn't particularly, not if she had to accept it from him, but it gave her something to do. "Thanks," she murmured ungraciously, moving to the stove. It was still warm, and she poured herself a large mug. Taking a tentative sip, she turned back to find him still eyeing her with that peculiar curve to his mouth.
"What are you staring at?" she demanded finally, irritation beginning to overwhelm her embarrassment.
"I never knew that someone could blush on the stomach and legs," he drawled. "If you're embarrassed, why don't you go put on some more clothes, instead of
pretending it doesn't bother you?"
She slammed her coffee down on the counter, slopping half of it over her hand. "I'm perfectly comfortable," she snapped. "If it bothers you, you can go back to New York or Washington or wherever."
His smile widened wickedly. "Oh, I'm just fine, Jessie. You can prance around stark naked for all I care—it doesn't move me in the slightest."
"Thank God for small favors." She refilled her coffee cup, contemplating and then discarding the very real temptation to dump the rest of the coffee on Springer's silky black head. Only the sight of her son resting peacefully in his arms, directly in the line of fire, stopped her. "That should make sharing this house a great deal easier." She took a sip of the coffee, made a face and went delving into the refrigerator in search of cream to take some of the curse off the strong brew.
There was a sharp intake of breath behind her, and she backed out of the refrigerator quickly, turning and standing up again. Springer was looking calm and unruffled, his attention on Matthew, and she wondered if she'd imagined that sudden sound that suggested he wasn't quite as unmoved as he imagined. Or was that wishful thinking on her part?
Wishful thinking, her mind echoed in outrage. Have you gone out of your mind? Why in heaven's name would you want him to still want you? Haven't you got troubles enough?
Ego, Jessie, she said, calming herself. It has nothing to do with anything more than simple pride.
"What's going through your devious mind now?" Springer queried, rising from the stool and placing the dozing Matthew in his basket. "I don't trust that look of yours."
"Don't be ridiculous, Springer, you don't trust anything about me, never mind an expression or two," she scoffed, leaning back against the cool white enamel finish of the ancient refrigerator.