by Janzen, Tara
“Yes. I’ve thought it over, and if we can agree on a couple of ground rules, I think reading lessons would be a good idea.” His sister, Karen, would have shot him for saying such a thing. Even after all these years, he hated to think of the many sacrifices she’d made trying to beat the difference between b and d into his brain, the missed parties, the canceled dates, the homework she hadn’t had time to finish for her own classes because doing his had taken them half the night. She’d taught him how to read by a hundred methods he hoped Lila had never heard of. Being an older sister, she hadn’t been above a little physical torture to get his attention back after it had wandered off in confusion. She’d pinched his arm so many times, he’d been afraid he’d never have a decent muscle, and she’d promised him she’d make sure he didn’t if he didn’t learn how to spell muscle.
Muscle. One of those words that made no phonetic sense whatsoever. What pinching hadn’t accomplished, the fear of growing up to be a ninety-eight-pound weakling had. He’d learned how to spell muscle, and Karen had rewarded him with a set of garage sale weights.
She’d been good at rewards. There had always been brownies and cookies for his lunch, and every Sunday before church she’d fixed him and his dad a big pancake breakfast to make up for all the cold cereal during the week. He hadn’t missed his mom very often, not as much as his dad, of course, or his sister, who’d had a chance to really know her before she died. Karen had made sure he felt the loss as little as possible. Once, she’d even skipped school to be a “homeroom mother” and bring cupcakes to his fifth-grade class.
And he’d just implied to Lila Singer that he didn’t know how to read. He hadn’t denied it before because she’d angered him with her Mother Goose book, and because she obviously hadn’t believed him when he’d told her the only reason he’d had a problem with her letter was because of her handwriting. Then when she’d asked about hobbies, he hadn’t been able to resist telling her what he was really interested in.
It had only been later that he’d come up with his plan. She wanted to teach him how to read, and he wanted to spend time with her. It was practically a natural—except for two tiny problems: He already knew how to read, and the time he wanted to spend with her wasn’t with their noses stuck in a book of nursery rhymes.
“Ground rules?” she asked, and he took a deep breath, readying himself for his long shot.
“I pick all the reading material, and to keep this from being a charity case, I think it’s important for you to let me pay you for your services.”
“My services?” she repeated, looking as surprised as she sounded.
“Okay,” he said quickly, lifting a hand and verbally backing off. “I know you didn’t offer to help me for money, but if you won’t take payment, you have to let me make it up to you somehow, maybe with dinner, like the other night.”
Lila’s first instinct was to say no. She wasn’t helping him for any personal gain, except for that bit about demystifying his appeal, putting him in a controllable category. She’d already offended him once, though, and she didn’t dare do it again, not if they were going to get their student-teacher relationship off to a good start.
“The pizza was nice,” she said slowly. “I think we can do that every now and then to keep things even.”
“It won’t always be pizza,” he warned, and she nodded her assent.
“I’m flexible when it comes to food,” she said.
In truth, since Danny’s death she’d become extremely flexible. She’d eat anything she didn’t have to cook first, anything the frozen food companies wanted to throw at her, anything the fast food joints could dream up.
“Great.” A smile spread across his face, deepening the creases in his cheeks and lighting his eyes, and suddenly she was flustered. “I’m going to go finish the second coat of paint,” he continued. “I’ll get back to you later in the week about the particulars for our first lesson.”
“Sure, fine.” She busied herself with tidying the papers on her desk, piling Greek gods on top of Brontë sisters. “Whatever you come up with will be fine, I’m sure.”
Jack knew he should be ashamed of himself, blatantly manipulating her into dinner like that—but he wasn’t.
* * *
She should have been stronger, more forceful, less malleable, Lila thought. She should have stood her ground, demanded her rights, spoken up for herself.
She should have worn her black dress.
She looked around the dining room of the Cove Garden restaurant and realized it was still too close to the holidays for people to have settled back into their normal, casual attire. Nope. Women wanted one more reason to wear their finest, and in the university town that meant dinner at either the Cove Garden or Shirewood’s. Jack had picked her favorite of the two, the Cove Garden with its non-nouvelle cuisine. The chef at the Cove had never stopped believing in cream and butter.
She wished he’d told her where they were going. His “let’s go into town and grab a bite” fell far short of describing most excursions to the Cove. She could have worn her black dress and her mink coat. Darn him, she thought, burying her nose in the menu. She could have worn her pearls and her black suede heels. The opportunity arose so seldom in her life. If she’d only known, she wouldn’t have missed this one.
He must have known, though. The place was packed, probably requiring reservations made a week ago. A week ago? She lowered her menu a scant inch, far enough to stare at him over the top.
“You’re cheating,” she said without preamble.
Jack glanced up from his own menu, wondering how he’d given up the game so quickly. “I’m not reading the menu, honest.”
“Of course you’re not reading the menu,” she said sotto voce, so as not to embarrass him. “If you could read the menu, we wouldn’t be here. I mean the restaurant.”
“What about the restaurant?”
“People don’t ‘grab a bite to eat’ at the Cove Garden.”
“They don’t?”
“No, they don’t. You ‘grab a bite’ at Ruffs. You ‘dine’ at the Cove. Knowing the correct usage of words to impart your true meaning is almost as important as knowing how to read.”
“Oh.”
“Oh, indeed.” She stuck her nose back in the menu. “Would you like poultry or beef?”
“Beef.”
“Okay.” She drew the word out on a long breath, shifting her attention to the right-hand page. “They have steak au poivre, which has crushed peppercorns in it, very tasty; filet mignon wrapped in bacon; tournedos with bearnaise sauce; beef Wellington loaded with pâté de foie gras and duxelles, or, if you prefer, filet de boeuf en croute; prime rib; and the last surviving chateaubriand west of the Mississippi.”
Jack listened attentively, though he knew the menu by heart. He liked the way she pronounced the French words. He liked the way her mouth moved. He liked remembering the way her mouth had moved under his.
He sat up straighter in his chair and forced his gaze back to the leather-bound menu. “What killed off all the other chateaubriands?”
Lila glanced up, giving him a blank look. Then she bubbled into disbelieving laughter.
“Women’s lib, Jack,” she told him between chuckles. “Women’s lib killed off the chateaubriands.” He was crazy, and funny, and quick, and she liked him. As a matter of fact, she liked him a lot.
“Well, I’m all for the liberation of women,” he said, “so I guess we’d better save this one for posterity. I’m going to have prime rib. How about you?”
“Filet de boeuf en croute,” she said, looking over the menu again. Then she quickly glanced up. “Beef Wellington. Sorry. I took a minor in French as an undergrad.”
“I flunked a semester of Spanish in high school.”
There it was again, she thought. They had absolutely nothing in common, nothing except astounding kisses and liking each other. It wasn’t enough, and it was time she made the point clear.
“I graduated summa cum laude from th
e University of Denver, and—and my husband was a Rhodes scholar.” She rushed through the last part, unable to meet his gaze.
“He was a great photographer too,” Jack said, sounding completely unimpressed by her information. “When did he die?”
“Three years ago.” She picked up her napkin and concentrated on smoothing it out on her lap.
“That’s a long time to be alone.”
“I—I wasn’t alone all the time.”
If her voice had been any softer, Jack wouldn’t have heard her. Truth be known, he wished he hadn’t.
Six
The ritual of ordering dinner dragged on, taking longer than usual because Jack had a hard time paying attention to the waiter’s questions. He had too many questions of his own running around in his brain. Questions like, If she hadn’t been alone since her husband’s death, who had she been with? What had happened? And where was the mystery man now?
He felt as if he’d had the rug jerked around beneath his feet, just enough to throw him off balance. He’d reconciled the facts of her marriage and widowhood with his feelings for her, and he’d staked his claim the night he’d muscled old Trey out of her house. Now there was this new guy, and from the tone of her voice he had the status of being part of a “past.” Jack was curious as all get out, his mind working overtime with possibilities, and he wanted to ask questions, lots of questions. Trouble was, she’d decided to monopolize the conversation with questions of her own—although she didn’t seem to be giving them her full attention.
“Have you had the prime rib here before?” she asked, not quite meeting his eyes.
“Yes, a couple of times.” He paused for the buildup to his first question, but she beat him to the punch.
“Have you ever ordered the beef Wellington?”
“A couple of times. I—”
“I’ve always wondered how they cooked them. You know, getting the pastry and the filet to come out at the same time.”
“I think they cook the filet first, then finish it off in the oven with the pastry, and I was wondering about—”
“So you’re a believer in women’s liberation?” she interrupted, fiddling with her napkin again, her gaze directed at her lap.
He sighed. “In theory.”
Her head came up, and a spark of indignation flashed in her eyes, assuring him he’d finally gotten her attention. “What do you mean, in theory?”
“Liberation is great for anyone, but like everything else, it comes with a price. In some areas, I don’t think liberation has been such a good deal for women.”
“And what areas are those?” Lila asked, pressing him for an answer that she was sure would plummet him to the depths of her regard, which was the safest place for him. She didn’t know what in the world had compelled her to say such a stupid thing as “I wasn’t alone all the time.” What was wrong with her? Did she need her head examined? She never talked about that period in her life. Never. Not with anyone.
Not until Jack Hudson had looked at her with what she considered to be a very disturbing mixture of compassion and desire. He never should have kissed her. Not the first time, the second time, or the third time, if the third time could even be called a kiss. The memory of his mouth on her cheek, her neck, her ear, still sent shivers down her spine. He definitely had a way about him.
Well, that settled it, she thought, stifling a groan and casting her eyes heavenward. A way about him . . . She did need her head examined.
“Well, I think it’s great that women have a chance at any career they want.” With effort, Lila refocused her attention on what he was saying. “And I don’t know how long it will be before they get equal pay for equal work, but I think what they need just as much is an increase in appreciation for their traditional roles.”
“I see.” At least she thought she saw his point. She might have missed a word or two, but the parts she’d caught didn’t amount to a male chauvinist jerk’s opinion.
“How about you? What do you think?” he asked.
“Me?”
“Yes. What do you think of traditional roles for women?”
“I don’t know,” she said, rearranging her napkin yet again. “I never had one.”
“You were a wife.”
“Well, yes, but being the wife of Danny Singer had more to do with style than roles. He was not a traditional man.”
“What kind of man was he?”
The question hung in the air, unacknowledged and unanswered. She creased the damask napkin one way and then the other, running her buffed nail across the folds in the white cloth while she debated the wisdom of opening up yet another subject for discussion with Jack. Not that she had anything to hide. Her marriage had been good, very good, something she was proud of. In truth, if she could have gotten away with it, she’d have worn a sign around her neck that said I GOT MARRIAGE RIGHT, and to hell with grammar. It was love affairs where she’d proven to be a dismal failure.
“Danny was a star, a bright, flaming star,” she started to say slowly, looking up at Jack. “Living with him was like living on a nonstop roller coaster fueled by excitement. He did things with light and a camera no one else had ever dreamed of, and the world made him rich and famous. He was no saint, but for five years he was the man I loved. For five years he was the man who loved me.”
Jack nodded sympathetically as he mentally kicked himself. He had to ask, hadn’t he? Yes, by golly, he just had to know about Danny Singer. Past loves had never been his favorite topic of conversation with women he was dating, at least not until Lila Singer. Maybe he’d allowed himself to get rusty. He hadn’t been dating much this past year. He’d been too busy, and his last blind date had been remarkably lacking in things like conversation and mutual interest.
Funny thing, though, he hadn’t felt rusty when he’d kissed Lila, and even as the words “the man who loved me” fell from her lips, he wanted to kiss her again. Maybe he was rusty. He was beginning to suffer from a one-track mind. But then, what man wouldn’t when she looked the way she did tonight?
She had on one of those soft, fuzzy sweaters again, angora or something. It was cut wide across the shoulders, revealing cream-colored skin and the delicate protrusion of her collarbone. Shiny black buttons held it together down the front, matching the rich ebony of the midnight cloud of her hair. It was the kind of sweater that invited a man’s touch.
“You saw the photograph he took of me?” she asked. “The one in the sitting room?”
He nodded. Oh, yes. He saw it in his sleep.
“He created the lighting effects on location, not in the darkroom. No one has been able to duplicate them. Did you notice the way my skin glowed?”
He nodded again. He’d noticed, especially in the curve of her neck and the slope of her shoulder. He’d noticed it in the satin slide of skin from beneath her breast to over her hip. He’d noticed it in the sleek straightaway of her thigh.
“I can’t tell you how many people have come to me and asked me to tell them how he did it.”
Jack cleared his throat. “How did he do it?”
A surprisingly mischievous smile lit her face, curving her lush, full mouth, and she leaned closer over the table. “Nobody believes me, but I don’t know. I saw the umbrellas and the filters, and all the strobe equipment, but I don’t know how he made them work together. He made only two hundred prints, and the last I heard they were going for ten thousand on the open market. Ten thousand dollars for a bit of light magic.”
No, Jack thought, not ten thousand for a bit of light magic. Ten thousand for her, for the magic of Lila Singer wrapped in gauze and moonbeams.
Dinner came and dinner went, and Jack barely tasted a bite. He hadn’t tried to work the conversation around to whoever had been holding her hand since Danny’s death. He wasn’t up to another rundown of virtues, and vices would be even worse.
When dinner was over, he paid the check with his credit card and managed to keep from wincing when she commended his signature on the sl
ip.
“That’s very good, Jack.”
“Thank you. I practice.”
In his truck, driving home, she glanced at one of the books he’d brought for them to read. He’d conveniently turned on the dome light for her.
“Welding from A to Z and Beyond?” she read the title aloud.
“You said hobbies.”
“Doesn’t sound like much of a hobby,” she murmured, envisioning bumpers and ball jacks.
“It’s all in the wrist.”
She hid a quick grin and glanced over at him. He said the craziest things. And he was cute. Well, maybe not cute, exactly, but cute seemed a safer adjective than the naked truth.
Naked? Oh, great, now she’d really gone too far. She shouldn’t even be thinking about things like Jack Hudson without his clothes on, or Jack Hudson’s chest, how the silky mat of hair would feel sliding between her fingers, how soft his skin would be, how hard the muscle beneath. How it would feel to press her mouth to the tender part of his throat and have his arms encircle her and hold her tight against all his . . . nakedness.
She shifted slightly, a weak-hearted attempt to put more distance between them, then forced herself to look out the windshield instead of at his face, which wasn’t cute at all, but sexy like the rest of him. It was in his eyes, the curve of his eyebrows, the sweep of his hair off his forehead. Sexy described his mouth, and his shoulders, and his hands. It was the first word she’d thought of when he’d stood in her doorway at six o’clock that evening in his khaki slacks, black polo shirt, braided leather belt, and bomber jacket. It had been the second word to cross her mind when he’d smiled his slightly off-center smile and looked at her with an appreciative twinkle in his eye.
She’d thought it half a dozen more times as he suggested dinner before reading lessons, and she’d had to force herself not to gaze too long at either his mouth or his eyes, or any other part of him, all of which seemed to fascinate her beyond the bounds of reason.
With a silent sigh she closed her eyes and lifted a gloved hand to her brow. Her plan wasn’t working. Against all of her saner instincts, she continued to be attracted to him, and attracted was putting it mildly. She didn’t know how he’d slipped into her life and her imagination, but he’d become a permanent fixture in both. He’d certainly done nothing overt, except for those kisses. Maybe that was all it had taken. She hadn’t been kissed in a long time, and though she didn’t subscribe to the “sex is a necessary part of life” theory, she knew Jack’s kiss had touched her more than physically.