“Is it always this good, Tom?”
“No.” The word burst from him, because it was the truth, but also because it dawned on him all of a sudden what could conceivably happen if he said yes.
Being Zelda, she might just search out someone else to experiment with, and that very thought rocked him to the soles of his bare, and increasingly chilly, feet. “It’s hardly ever like this,” he hastened to explain. “This is like –” He searched for an analogy, and found the perfect one. “It’s like winning the lottery. It probably only happens this way once in ohh, ten million times. A hundred million,” he amended, just to be on the safe side.
“Lottery? I’ve never heard of this lottery.”
Damn. The time difference did make vocabulary tough at times. “It’s like betting on a horse race, like - like winning the Kentucky Derby.”
“I see.” She thought for a moment. “And how many times has it been for you then?” The question was posed in the same tone as the rest of her queries, but he understood its import.
“Never, Zelda.” Again, it was nothing more or less than the truth, even though that truth rocked him to the bottom of his soul. He wasn’t ready to acknowledge the feelings she stirred in him.
She must have sensed his reluctance, because she was quiet for a long time after that.
“C’mon, Zel, it’s time to go.” He gave her one last kiss. The short spring afternoon was fast becoming evening.
She began the laborious process of dressing and after pulling on his own clothing he watched her, marveling all over again at both the complications and the plainness of her underwear. He mentally compared it to the bikini panties, thongs, and scanty bits of lace that passed for undergarments among the women he’d known. These unadorned white garments weren’t revealing in the slightest, but somehow they were far more arousing on Zelda than the most provocative of lacy scraps had been on other women.
Still, he wished he could buy her a stack of that other stuff, just to see her shocked delight. And to watch her model it, of course.
He helped her find the hairpins he’d removed, and again he watched as she used a comb from the camera case on her tangled curls. Then she twisted them into a semblance of a knot and did her best to secure it on the top of her head.
She was an unusual woman. Even now, there was no false modesty, no embarrassment at having him see her perform these intimate tasks. That was amazing, considering her virginity and the social restrictions of the age she lived in.
Zelda was far more honest and open than many of the females he’d made love to in his own time. She’d certainly been more naturally responsive. She was a deeply passionate woman, and his male pride delighted in the fact that he’d brought her pleasure.
He felt inordinately protective and tender towards her because of it. She was feminine and very lovely, kneeling on the cushion of dried leaves inside the mouth of the tiny cave, struggling with her mass of hair.
“Finding this cave was really good luck,” he remarked. “It’s really something how we just stumbled on it like that.”
She was on her feet now, brushing bits of debris from her wide sleeves and her skirt. In the instant before she bent low to remove something invisible from her hem, he caught a glimpse of the guilty scarlet color that flooded her face, and astonishment made his mouth drop open. He caught her arms and drew her into his embrace, taking her chin in his hand and forcing her to look at him, grinning down at her.
“Zelda Ralston, you devil. You knew exactly where this cave was, and you deliberately led me here, right?” Another thought struck him just as mind-boggling as the other had been. She’d assured him there was no chance of pregnancy. He had no idea what was in common use, but it sure as hell wasn’t birth control pills, so she must have made some very careful preparations before they even left the house.
“You actually planned every detail, didn’t you? You brought me here deliberately to---to seduce me.” It was astounding considering that she’d never done any such thing before.
It was also funny and very flattering to think that she’d thought this through ahead of time and had prepared so meticulously.
He assumed a wounded expression, pressing his hand to his heart and mimicking the formal speech of the day. “Madam, I’m truly shocked at such wanton behavior. And you a single lady of a certain age, too.” He was endlessly amused by her conviction that twenty-eight was the threshold of senility.
He was appalled when her eyes registered hurt and confusion. Her face crumpled and tears slowly began rolling down her cheeks. She swallowed hard and her chin quivered. “Please, please don’t make fun of me, Tom,” she said, her husky voice fierce, throbbing with emotion. “I can’t bear having you think of me as just some---some desperate old-old maid, who’d---who’d throw herself at the first unsuspecting man who came along.”
He drew her close, disgusted with himself for hurting her feelings. “Zel, don’t cry, I was only joking.”
He used his finger to swipe at the tears on her cheek, but she wrenched herself out of his embrace and turned her back on him. Her spine stiff and ramrod straight, her arms were folded protectively across her chest. “I know all too well that I’m not pretty, or dainty, or charming, or—or voluptuous, or any of the things men want in a woman,” she pronounced in a matter-of-fact tone that tore at his soul because it spoke of a lifetime of hurting.
“Being unattractive,” her voice quavered a little on the word but she recovered quickly, ”doesn’t mean I don’t still have feelings and”---her self-control wavered again and she gulped audibly--- “and -ummm, desires, the same as other women.” She swallowed several times and then turned to face him, her color high, her chin held at that impossible angle he recognized so well.
“I understand that you probably feel alarmed now, afraid that I’ll, I’ll make further demands on you, but I assure you, Tom Chapman, I won’t. I have far too much pride and common sense for that. You’re perfectly free and unencumbered, just as you were before any of this occurred.”
He wanted to roar with laughter at the utter ridiculousness of her words. He wanted to turn her over his knee and beat some sense into her. Most of all, he wanted to strip her buck naked and take her again, and again, until she could no longer question how he felt about her beauty.
Instead, he pulled her roughly into his arms, holding her still when he she struggled like a wildcat. She was fierce, this Zelda of his.
“Listen up, lady, and listen good.” His voice was gruff with emotion, and he wished with all his heart that he could sing as well as Jackson could.
Well, he’d have to just do his best, and this particular song didn’t require a lot of range anyway. Besides, she wouldn’t have heard it before, so she couldn’t be critical of his rendition.
It wasn’t yet written, but was a song that he remembered well. The words had always tugged at some deep, lonely part of him. Until this moment there’d never been anyone to sing them to.
In fair imitation of Joe Cocker, the froggy-voiced artist who’d written and recorded the simple, yet elegant tune, he told her how beautiful she was to him. He sang of hopes, of dreams, of need. He allowed the words to convey all that she meant to him.
He sang from the center of his soul.
“You are so beautiful to me, can’t you see---“
She shuddered, then went utterly still as he repeated the words, soft and slow and earnest, taking his time, giving them the intensity he couldn’t phrase in his own words. He knew he didn’t do justice to the final, quavering high note, but sincerity made up for technique. His voice floated off into the twilight, and when she took his face between her palms and kissed him, her brown eyes were soft with sentiment and he tasted the salt of her tears.
A Distant Echo: Chapter Sixteen
Drying glasses behind the bar, Jackson squinted across the smoky room, his attention captured by the woman in the red dress with the smooth coil of light blond hair. She was standing on the tiny, makeshift stage by the
piano, crooning a love ballad in a smoky soprano that impressed him with its range and power.
Her body impressed him too, at least, the visible upper part did. Her ruby satin dress dipped low over her generous breasts, nipped tight at her waist, then flared into a huge expanse of skirt that made him fantasize about her legs.
Were they long enough to wrap around his waist with some to spare? In this place and time, skirts being what they were, a man could only hope. A leg man in this day and age was a real gambler.
“Who’s the babe, Silas?” Jackson refilled the beer glasses from the spout and set them back on the tray for the burly waiter.
“Her name’s Leona Day.”
“She for hire?” Most of the women who ventured into the saloon were hookers. Nice women didn’t frequent bars in 1902, and so far, the not-so-nice had stirred not even a flicker of his interest.
But this one did. He’d plunk down his entire night’s earnings for a few hours with Miss Day, Jackson decided.
Silas managed to shoulder the loaded tray and shake his head at the same time. “Leona’s no whore. Word is she’s private property, keeps company with that old dude over there in the corner.”
He jerked his chin at a quiet, well-dressed old man with a large moustache, sitting alone and nursing a beer.
Jackson looked again at the singer and reached for a seldom-used bottle under the bar. “When you get back, take her this glass of sherry with my compliments.”
Silas grinned, exposing his missing front tooth. “She won’t thank you for sherry, Zalco. Leona drinks whisky, neat.” He set off to deliver his orders.
When he came back, Jackson substituted a healthy portion of the best Scotch the hotel had to offer and watched as Silas threaded his way across the room and handed it to the lovely woman when her song ended. Silas gestured over at Jackson as she accepted the glass.
She sipped it and nodded acceptance. Jackson bowed theatrically and lifted his hand in a snappy salute.
He couldn’t leave the bar just then. But when her next break came, he put Silas in charge and walked to the table where she sat with the old man, still sipping the whisky he’d sent.
Jackson had been fast at learning the rules that governed saloons in 1902. He checked the old geezer for visible side arms. The lady was a looker, but he preferred not to end up with a hole in his skull over a woman. A dude as old as this, sporting a woman like Leona, might prove a little touchy about a younger man sniffing around his lady.
“Evenin’, folks,” he drawled with a disarming smile. “I’m Jackson Zalco, your friendly bartender. Just wanted to compliment you on your singin’, ma’am.”
The old man half rose in a courtly gesture, a friendly smile on his narrow, weathered face. He held out a hand and Jackson shook it.
“George Edwards. Pleased to make your acquaintance, son.” His voice was soft, mellow, and polite. “Sit a spell, why don’t you? This young lady is Miss Leona Day.”
“Thank you. I’d appreciate a seat for a minute or two.” Jackson straddled the chair closest to Leona, breathing in a whiff of the spicy perfume that clung to her like a magical cloud in the midst of the smoke and the smell of beer. Up close she was even lovelier than she’d seemed from a distance.
“This is only my second Saturday workin’ the bar in this place. It’s pretty busy for a little town like Frank. You sing here often, Miss Day?”
“Whenever I’m invited,” she said with a tiny smile.
Hot damn, she was beautiful. Ravishing. Her eyes were huge, an honest-to-God cornflower blue, and she had the most flawless peachy skin Jackson had ever seen. Her mouth had the swollen, pouty look actresses in his own time paid big money and underwent silicone injections to achieve, and her jawline was both strong and lovely, her chin cleft in the center just the way his own was.
He figured it looked one hell of a lot better on her.
She was assessing him openly, her eyes taking in his long, thick club of blond hair, tied back as usual with a leather lace. He knew the snowy-white shirt and bow tie suited him.
“You new in town, Mr. Zalco?”
“Call me Jackson, ma’am, please. Me and my partner got here a couple of weeks ago.”
“Planning to stay?” She raised her glass again and swallowed. Her neck was long and graceful, and her full breasts swelled out of the rich satin of her dress.
Jackson’s hands ached to cup them. It was a damned good thing he was sitting down. Just being near her brought an uncomfortable fullness to his groin, and his trousers were snug to begin with.
“Yes, ma’am, we’re here for a while. About a year, I reckon.”
He and Tom both figured there might be an outside chance they’d get hurtled back to their own time next April when the Slide came down. Spending the next eleven months in Frank seemed like a life sentence in purgatory. Now, smiling across at Miss Leona Day, Jackson actually thought there might be a little ray of light in the darkness of those months.
“Where you folks from?” Jackson had learned it was better to get others talking about their backgrounds than to have to make up lies about his own.
“Back East,” Edwards said vaguely. “No special place. We travel around a fair bit. You?”
“New Mexico, but not for some time,” Jackson replied, equally evasive. “Same as you, we travel a fair bit, me and my partner. His name’s Tom Chapman.”
“He here tonight?” Edwards scanned the room. He was sitting with his back to the wall, in a location that allowed him to keep an eye on everyone in the room.
“Tom’s not much for drinkin’,” Jackson explained. “Specially lately,” he added half to himself. Zelda and her demon rum.
He saw Silas signaling frantically from behind the bar, and reluctantly got to his feet. “Guess I’d better get back to work. It’s been a pleasure meetin’ you, Mr. Edwards, Miss Day.”
He stretched out his hand to her and she laid her long-fingered palm against his for an instant, then withdrew it. The skin contact sent a ripple of awareness up Jackson’s arm, and when he met her blue gaze, he saw a reflection of the same banked fires that burned inside of him.
Leona Day sang another two sets before the bar closed. After the final song, George Edwards escorted her out, tipping his hat to Jackson as they passed the bar. Leona nodded in his direction without meeting Jackson’s eyes.
“She left this here note for you, Zalco. Guess you made an impression,” Silas said, smirking a few moments later after he’d cleared the table where Edwards had been sitting.
Jackson snatched the folded scrap of paper and opened it.
“Room 210, when you’re free tonight,” was printed neatly, along with a scrawled “LD.”
Part of Jackson’s job was to help Silas clean up after the bar closed. The job had never been done with such speed or reckless abandon, and as he worked Jackson’s brain feverishly went over the ramifications of the invitation.
Was it some kind of after-hours party? Would Edwards be present, or –please, Lord - would Leona Day be all alone when he got there? If so, was there danger of a shoot-out at sunrise with the older man should matters progress the way Jackson prayed they might?
Getting shot after a night with Leona Day might just be worth it, all things considered.
At last he climbed the stairs, cursing his aching leg. He went to his own cubbyhole of a room and scrubbed away the smell of beer and tobacco that clung to him. Then, amused by his own nervousness, he tapped softly on the designated door.
It opened and she was there, wearing a soft blue robe, her fair hair loose and tied back with a silk scarf.
“Jackson Zalco, how nice of you to drop by,” she said in her throaty voice, just as if it was the middle of the afternoon instead of two in the morning.
“Come in.” She stood aside so that he could pass.
The room was large, much larger than the cramped, austere closet upstairs that Jackson had been given as part of his job, and Jackson saw at once, with an enormous sense of
relief, that there was no sign of Edwards.
As far as he could tell, there was no indication that a man lived there at all. This was getting better by the second.
An ornate sofa and two armchairs were grouped at one end of the rectangular room, and Leona had made the area distinctly her own by putting framed pictures and an assortment of perfume bottles on the low, round table between the chairs. She’d draped a pretty scarf across the top of the window and covered the bed with a pink satin comforter. Her voluminous, jewel-colored dresses spilled out of the wooden armoire and also from a huge, open trunk in the far corner. The air was filled with her perfume, the spicy, faintly oriental fragrance that Jackson had detected in the bar.
“Sit down, why don’t you.” She’d locked the door, and now she gestured at the sofa. “I have whisky, if you’d like a drink?”
“I’ll pass, thanks. Nothin’ like bartendin’ to put a man off good liquor,” he said easily, sitting where she’d indicated.
She seemed entirely at ease, drifting over to the armchair and sinking down into it. Her feet were bare, small, narrow feet, and she tucked them up underneath her. Jackson glimpsed delicate ankles, slender calves.
Wordlessly, she picked a flat silver cigarette case from the low table beside her, snapped it open, and held it out to him.
He shook his head. “Gave that up, too, a couple years ago now. A young fellow Tom and I knew died of cancer, so we both swore off the butts after that.”
She frowned, obviously puzzled, and he silently berated himself. Like a million other things in 1902, no one had yet made any connection between cigarettes and cancer. She closed the case without taking one herself and laid it back on the table.
“Well, I’m afraid I can’t offer you tea and biscuits,” she said with a mischievous twinkle in her blue eyes.
“I’ve had enough tea to last me a lifetime.”
Jackson had never been long on subtlety. He felt it wasted a whole hell of a lot of valuable time. He lounged back on the stiff, uncomfortable sofa and rested one booted foot on the other knee, making up his mind that it was time to separate the bull from the buckwheat. The night wasn’t getting any younger.
Now and Forever: Time Travel Romance Superbundle Page 78