FLASHBACK

by Nancy Warren

  He shook his head. "Woodworm."

  She'd seen a lot of man-made beauty literally eaten away by nature's busy little recyclers. "Did they get much else?"

  "Some paneling, I think. Nothing too drastic. Luckily, the city's kept the house up ever since it took the property over."

  She stood by his side watching, fascinated, as he carved, using woodworking tools like an artist's brushes. She bent closer, admiring his technique as he added details to a head emerging from carved oak leaves. She heard the soft scrape of metal on wood as a mythical face began to emerge.

  She felt the heat from his body, breathed in the scent of wood and a whiff of something citrusy. "The green man?" she asked.

  He nodded. "A favorite subject for carvers – the spirit of the tree peeking out through the branches." He stopped to wipe the sawdust away with a rag, leaned back and squinted at his work. "Although in this case, I'd guess whoever carved this mantel just copied it from a picture of an English fireplace."

  He shrugged at her raised eyebrows. "It feels English."

  So he had them, too. Those unexplained hunches. As she watched him work, she saw the artistry in what he did. He could call himself a carpenter, but he was a true craftsman. She wondered if even she would be able to tell which half was new and which was the original when he'd finished.

  The smell of new wood, mixed with the spicy fragrance of the man next to her, was intoxicating. She should move on, keep to her resolution to stay out of temptation's way. But she lingered.

  "Who taught you to do that?" she asked softly.

  "Your grandfather. Remember how I used to follow him around? He carved all kinds of things. Furniture, animals, the odd piece of missing trim from one of the old houses around here. He'd talk to me sometimes or, more often, listen to me talk. Then he started teaching me. He was a wonderful man, your grandpa."

  "Yes." Suddenly she did remember the young Jack helping Grandpa in his shed. She'd always found the intricate wood carving a real bore to watch, but Jack had been fascinated. And had helped carry on a hand-crafting tradition. "He'd be very proud if he could see you now."

  Jack glanced up at her then, their eyes only inches apart. He smiled, and there was something in that smile that made Laura's heart speed up. Some disturbing message in the deep-blue eyes that warned of danger. She was getting that fight or flight response again and frankly didn't know whether to attack him or run like hell.

  She straightened. "I'd better get started."

  "Are you in the master bedroom today?" Jack asked casually.

  "No, I'm pretty much finished in there. I'm starting on the third floor maid's room."

  "Oh." He sounded disappointed.

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  «^»

  All Laura's research made her glad she wasn't a maid living in the late nineteenth century. She rolled pale-green paint on the walls and the ceiling in the tiny attic bedroom. No fancy paint finishes here. She hoped to find a single metal bed and a simple chest of drawers. A few hooks were still hanging on the wall, all the poor maid had for a closet.

  Laura managed to drizzle as much paint onto her hair, clothing and the canvas drop cloths as she rolled onto the ceiling. She was sticky, hot and half-choked with fumes from the oil-based paint when a voice made her jump.

  "My God, it's the creature from the black lagoon," Jack cried in mock alarm from the doorway.

  "Ha! My next victim!" Laura snarled at him, holding her green roller out like a weapon.

  "I come in peace, bearing gifts," he retorted, holding out the coffee thermos. She put the roller down gratefully.

  He walked in and made a face. "Smells like you're waging chemical warfare in here." He stepped forward and touched the tip of his index finger to the side of her nose. "And losing." He smiled, holding his green-tipped finger up to her, his eyes as blue and twinkling as the waves of Laroche harbor on a sunny day.

  Her heart lurched.

  He wiped his finger on her multisplattered denim shoulder. It could have been boding oil he was rubbing into her the way the simple gesture seared her. "Why don't we go down to one of the finished rooms and have coffee?" He started to back away, but Laura stopped him.

  "I can't go anywhere until I'm dry. You go ahead, I'll have mine in here."

  "No. I'll stay with you." He looked around the room. "Is there anything we can lean on?"

  "I haven't painted the door yet."

  "You're asking me to shut the single source of ventilation?"

  "Look, you don't have to stay."

  He shut the door and sank to the floor.

  Laura smiled down at him. "I did open the window." She gestured to the open pane high up one wall.

  Jack handed her a mug, and belatedly she realized she'd have to sit either squished up beside him or in the middle of the room. Her neck was hurting from painting the ceiling. She needed to lean on something. Gingerly, she sat down beside Jack.

  "Watch your elbows," she warned, pulling her body in tight. There wasn't much space between them and the wet walls. As small as she tried to make herself, Laura couldn't help but touch Jack. His body was warm and solid, setting her nerve endings buzzing everywhere their bodies met.

  She drank thankfully from the yellow mug, trying to ignore the enforced intimacy. "You make great coffee."

  He turned to her in surprise. "You really think so?"

  "Mmm."

  "Huh."

  She rolled her shoulders.

  "You're going to have to ditch the Michelangelo act until your neck gets better," he said.

  He put his coffee cup down, and before she could stop him, he'd picked her up bodily and hauled her onto his lap. She didn't dare struggle because of the paint. "Put me down," she gasped. "Jack, you'll get paint all over yourself."

  He opened his legs and she bumped to the ground. "Now hold still." His magic fingers started moving on her neck in the wonderful way she remembered, and suddenly all the fight went out of her.

  "There's a girl in Sara's class who has her hair streaked with green just like this. Very fashionable." His voice teased gently, while the rolling pressure on her neck and shoulders was too soothing to resist. His touch, like his tone, was light, friendly, with no threatening undertones. As a ploy to avoid intimacy, Laura mused, dousing herself in paint seemed to be quite effective.

  She relaxed.

  Being held against him, feeling the heat of his thighs against the outside of hers, the warmth of his hands, was all so familiar, so right. He rubbed her neck for a long time while she let herself lean against him, her eyes drifting shut.

  His hands were callused, working hands. She thought she felt a hint of papery sawdust as he rubbed her skin. Above the sharp odor of paint she could smell the new-wood scent that clung to his fingers and clothing. His breathing was slow and deliberate, like the movement of his hands. Each breath out caused a waft of warm air on the back of her neck like the whisper of a caress.

  She didn't know when the atmosphere started to change, but suddenly she didn't feel so relaxed. A new and different kind of tension began to build. And for all her plans to stay aloof, she was powerless to move.

  Still, she figured, it wasn't like she was in her sexy red dress with her makeup intact and her hair done. He'd just told her she resembled something out of a horror film.

  Only a man desperate, or deeply in love, could find a paint-globbed, work-boot-shod, sweat-stained woman a big turn-on. She'd seen the way women were looking at Jack at the party the other night. He was too good-looking, too confident, to be desperate.

  She wished quite suddenly that she was wearing something sexy and her makeup was flawless. Perhaps she would turn her head and let her rouged lips float by his. Let him get a whiff of her perfume and a glimpse of cleavage until he was helplessly in her thrall.

  For she realized that she wanted him any way she could get him. Better a little bit of heaven now than a lifetime of wondering … and wishing. At least, when she packed her broke
n heart, she would also have a treasure box of memories to take along.

  She didn't know when the movement of Jack's hands changed to a caress; she only knew that it did. Instead of jumping away, like she'd planned, she sighed with a mixture of gratitude and anticipation.

  His lips whispered over the back of her neck, making her shiver. He kissed the flesh under her right earlobe, trailing his tongue in a lazy circle and, just like that, she felt the hot, slick rush of desire slide through her body.

  Snap, snap – he released the denim straps on her overalls. She clutched the knees on either side of her own and her heart thudded. As though seeking to sooth that overworked organ, he trailed his hands down her T-shirt and over her heart, which only beat more crazily. She never bothered with a bra when she wore her overalls, so there was nothing between her breasts and his seductive hands but a bit of flimsy cotton, and her nipples felt like they were doing their best to burst through the T-shirt. They literally ached for his touch. But he made her wait, tracing the shape of her over and over again through the cloth.

  By the time he slid his fingers under the shirt, she was panting and helpless. His leathery hands climbed lazily up her belly before finally cupping her breasts. She moaned as he pinned each nipple between two fingers.

  She turned her face to him then, and kissed him with her unrouged lips, slow and deep. He didn't seem to mind that she was a mess, but kissed her back with an intensity that made her quiver. His hands came out of her T-shirt and she heard the tinny sound as he popped the rest of the snaps on her overalls. Each metallic ping sent another shiver of excitement curling up her spine.

  She felt like she'd been waiting twelve years for this moment – and she couldn't wait another second.

  She turned her body fully around to face him and dove forward, plunging her fingers into the thick waves of his hair. Her lips seemed to telegraph their message of need and urgency as their mouths met again.

  The tempo picked up immediately.

  He left her mouth only long enough to yank her T-shirt up and over her head. When their lips met again, her naked breasts were pressed against the chambray of his shirt. She rubbed herself against him, feeling the soft fabric, the scratchiness of sawdust and the hard scrape of buttons on her flesh, while his tongue teased and tormented her mouth.

  He pulled back, breathing heavily, to gaze at her naked torso. The expression on his face made her feel beautiful.

  Kneeling before him, Laura unbuttoned his workshirt, laughing as bits of sawdust flew through the air when she popped each button. She ran her fingers over the muscular chest with its mat of copper hair, leaving streaks of green behind, while he yanked the rest of his shirt off and threw it into the middle of the room.

  Both kneeling now, they came together, naked chest to naked chest, mouth-to-mouth. Laura clutched him to her, needing him in the deepest part of her. Her body cried out for him, and with her tongue and her roving hands, she let him feel her need. She refused to think, refused to do anything but feel the glorious sensations. He tugged, and the sagging overalls slid down over her hips.

  "Wait, my boots…" she mumbled. She sat down on her cotton panties. The bulky denim was puddled at her ankles, trapped there by the brown bulk of leather and metal. Jack unlaced each steel-toed boot as though it were a dancing slipper, and carefully eased each foot out.

  Next he drew off her gray woolen work socks, and finally he pulled the overalls off her legs. Her eyes fell to his jeans, and he obeyed her silent command, unzipping and yanking at them while she unlaced his boots, removed his own wool socks. Somewhere outside a car honked, the noise strangely out of place in the panting silence of the maid's room.

  Jack leaned behind her and she watched the play of his athlete's muscles as he wadded a tarpaulin before tipping her back on it. The material was scratchy under her naked skin, and cool and sticky where she landed on squishy dollops of congealing paint.

  "I feel like I'm in a mud wrestling match," she groaned.

  His eyes were alight with laughter as he rolled on top of her, warm and pulsing with vitality. "Honey, I think you're losing."

  She smiled back at him, feeling crazy and wicked and more alive than she'd ever felt in her life. She groped with one hand until she felt the paint tray. Dipping her fingers in the green ooze, she said, "Don't be too sure," and rubbed it into his chest, until he looked like he was decorated with Spanish moss

  "I'd return the favor except I don't want to get chemical poisoning when I take my tongue to your breasts," he whispered.

  His eyes roved over her in a way that make her heart stop beating. He nuzzled her neck, trailed kisses to her breasts and kissed and suckled her there until she gasped, grabbing his head to press him to her.

  He dropped kisses over her belly, dipping his tongue into her navel, making her giggle. His gaze fastened on the cotton panties, and with a little growl he took the waistband between his teeth. He slipped a hand under her hips, which she obligingly raised. Then, using his teeth to pull from the front, rather like a dog worrying a bone, and his hand to pull from the back, he slipped her panties down and all the way off.

  She lay there naked and exposed while he knelt beside her, looking his fill. "You are the most beautiful thing I've ever seen." His voice was husky.

  His fingers trembled slightly as he reached for the tangle of curls he'd just uncovered.

  She caught her breath as he touched her, dipped a finger inside her and trailed the wetness up to the throbbing bud. He lay down beside her and kissed her again, while his fingers danced slowly upon her until she was writhing helplessly in his arms.

  "Wait," she panted, knowing her explosion was imminent. "I want you inside me."

  He ripped his briefs off in a tearing hurry, then crawled naked to the heaped denim and dragged out his jeans, fumbling in the pocket until he found a square plastic packet.

  Then he was on top of her and she opened her legs to him. He placed himself at the entrance, pausing to stare deep into her eyes.

  She gazed back for a long moment, seeing his need, letting him see her own. It was like going back in time to when he was her hero, the pinnacle of her dreams. And yet it was not. There were a dozen years of growing up and experience between them. It was all reflected in their eyes – the memories, the regrets.

  But most of all, the wanting.

  When she could bear the painful intimacy of his gaze no longer, she pulled his head down for his kiss. As their lips met, he surged into her, and she felt she would burst with the pleasure of it.

  She clasped him to her, wrapping him with her legs, hugging him with her arms and kissing him with her lips, her tongue. With each thrust it felt as though he were going deeper into her, penetrating her most secret places, and she opened each of them to him gladly.

  He filled her body completely, taking her higher and higher until she was swept away. She cried out as her body clenched with ecstasy again and again. Like an echo, she heard Jack cry out his own pleasure.

  They lay, entwined and spent, for a long time, listening to each other's breathing slow. "From now on, every time I smell paint, I'll think of you naked," he said.

  "We'll need to shower in turpentine," she chuckled.

  His hand wandered over the mottled green flesh that stretched from her shoulder to her belly. "I like you just like this. You're a work of art, my painted lady."

  Her heart swelled with love and she hugged him fiercely. She tried to roll on top of him, but the tarpaulin came with her, glued to her back. "Ouch," she cried out, as he gingerly pulled the offending fabric away.

  "Come on," he said, pulling Laura to her feet. "Get dressed, we're going to my house to clean up."

  They dressed swiftly, making faces as the clothing stuck to paint patches on their skin, then jumped into his truck for the short drive to Jack's house.

  Laura sat beside him, feeling like she was back in her childish make-believe world again, pretending Jack was her husband. For now, it was enough. They didn't t
alk, but they never stopped touching. His right hand clasped her left thigh possessively, while Laura drew patterns on his shirt with one fingertip.

  When they reached Jack's house, he ushered her inside and directed her to the bathroom. "I'll be right back with the turpentine," he said, with that smile she now knew she couldn't trust.

  She had never, in all her years painting, believed paint thinner was sexy. Not until Jack stripped her naked, soaked a fluffy washcloth with the stuff and began dabbing it on the paint patches. Of course, his other hand was busy, too, as was his mouth, which may have been how the turpentine came to arouse Laura to a new pitch.

  She took her revenge when her turn with the washcloth came, and she didn't declare his body paint-free until he was groaning with the strength of his arousal. He turned the shower on and they stepped under the jets of steaming water, soaping each other and pressing their slick bodies together while they kissed long and deep. She slid her hands over his strong back, taut buttocks, and then took his manhood in one hand, the bar of soap in the other. "I missed a spot," she whispered.

  After the shower, he toweled her dripping body with painstaking deliberation. He dried her breasts and then, while he was toweling her belly, leaned forward and sucked her nipples wet just for the pleasure of toweling them again, grinning wickedly when the rough material on her sensitized flesh made Laura gasp. He dried each of her long legs slowly, toweling thoroughly between each of her toes, caressing her until her body felt heavy, liquid. When he hoisted her onto the cool Arborite on the bathroom vanity and parted her thighs, she tipped her head back against the steamy mirror, inhaling the moist air that smelled like citrus shampoo with a hint of paint thinner.

  She stopped noticing anything but the feel of his lips once he bent his head and began kissing the flesh of her inner thighs. She whimpered helplessly as he parted the curls that hid her secrets. His tongue touched her, teased her, tormented her until she was sobbing in surrender, her toes curled round his shoulders, her fingers clutching his wet hair.