by Ruth Wind
Reality snatched the sultry vision away. She glimpsed her unadorned and decidedly unfeminine face in the mirror; her hair pulled back severely, the scar pink and angry over her eye. She shook her head in disgust at herself. Bad enough to have suddenly turned into a sneaky voyeur, ignoring the unwritten but precise rules of apartment living; she now had the nerve to contemplate passionate liaisons with a man who was definitely out of her class. She imagined Joel with a confident professional woman, a lawyer or doctor, perhaps—not an overly tall and less than graceful reporter.
She flicked the light off and hurried out of the bathroom. In the peaceful sanctuary of her bedroom, she shook her head, mortified. He wasn't a stripper or a photograph in a beefcake calendar, designed for ogling. It shamed her that she continued to think in that way about him—after all, hadn't women been complaining about it for years?
Assumptions, assumptions, assumptions, she thought as she climbed into bed and punched down her pillow. What did she really know about Joel Summer, anyway, except that he liked birds and ought to have considered a career as a movie star? A good reporter wouldn't be jumping to so many conclusions.
In the bedroom beyond the wall, she heard a sound. Covering her head, she groaned as another vision of him assailed her.
Maybe, she thought, it was impossible to completely eradicate the sensual part of one's nature. Maybe she was fighting too hard to ignore him. He was an undeniably handsome man, and beauty, as she'd told Samantha, was a very important part of life.
She settled in more comfortably, her mind somewhat eased. After all, she could never get enough of the look of the first snow on the craggy summit of Pikes Peak, but by January, she ceased to notice it at all.
* * *
Chapter 4
« ^ »
Joel knelt at the foot of the lilac bushes Sunday morning, enjoying the early sunshine on his head and arms. The sweet smell of pungent earth rose to his nostrils as he dug a trench around the roots. But the mixture he poured into the prepared dugout smelled worse than a rotten egg.
"What is that?" asked a voice behind him. He turned to see Maggie, dressed in a simple green sundress and sandals, her hair caught back in a ponytail. The color set her golden eyes glimmering, as if small bits of light were trapped there.
He smiled. "Fish emulsion, powdered eggshells and water. Aromatic, isn't it?"
"That's an understatement." She wrinkled her nose. "Is it fertilizer or something?"
"Exactly." He lifted the bucket and moved to the next bush, cultivating the dirt around the roots with a forked hand tool. "It'll make these bushes bloom like you won't believe."
"You're a gardener, too?" Maggie folded her arms to calm the jitters she felt in his presence. She had seen him through the kitchen windows and had been unable to resist chatting with him for a few minutes.
He glanced at her over his shoulder, his eyes a brilliant, jeweled blue. "Man of many talents." He wet the earth with the last of the mixture and stood up. "I hope you don't mind, but it didn't look like anyone around here was serious about gardening."
She laughed. "Not hardly. I barely have time for myself, much less a hobby."
Wiping his hands on a clean cloth at his belt, he said, "Do you have a few minutes for a cup of coffee?" He grinned, showing off that single, searing dimple. "I have someone I'd like you to meet."
"The old torn?" Maggie asked, delighted.
"Good guess."
"I had faith you could do it."
"Come on, then. I'll give you a proper introduction."
She followed him across the grass, trying not to notice how the worn-white jeans hugged his broad thighs. Then, remembering the path of least resistance that would—hopefully—help her overcome this ridiculous infatuation, she allowed herself an appreciative appraisal of his back beneath a cotton tank.
At his door, he stepped aside to let her go ahead. "Watch out in there. I ordinarily don't have people in through the back door."
As her eyes adjusted, Maggie saw fifty-five gallon drums neatly arranged around the small, enclosed back porch. "Is this the recycling center?" she asked with a smile.
He inclined his head a little ruefully. "You're lucky you're seeing it when I've just started over in a new house. It's not usually a very neat area."
Maggie looked at him. "Neatness isn't really the point, though, is it?"
He smiled. "No, it isn't." For a brief second, his eyes caught hers in a gentle appraisal. He gestured toward the kitchen. "In here."
The earthy scent of freshly brewed coffee welcomed her, and she breathed the aroma thankfully, glancing around curiously. He had either accumulated very little in the way of decorations, or he had not yet had time to put them up in the kitchen, for the walls were bare and only a single plant grew in the curtainless window. The floor, however, gleamed with a recent mopping, and his dishes had been put away.
"So, would you like a cup of coffee?" he asked, washing his hands.
"If it tastes as good as it smells, I'll arm wrestle you for the pot."
"It does, but I'll share." He filled two heavy ceramic mugs with the dark brew. "Cream or sugar?"
"All of the above. Please."
He smiled, taking down containers of each. "Me, too. My mom raised us on a mixture of half coffee, half milk—I still drink it in almost the same combination."
His hands dwarfed the mug, the spoon looking like a miniature between long, graceful fingers. They were hands accustomed to work by the look of the nicks and scratches marring their backs, but for their size, they were deft and nimble.
She sipped the aromatic coffee and exclaimed, "Wow!"
"Jamaica Blue Mountain. The best coffee in the world. A professor of mine used to drink it."
"It really is fantastic. Thanks."
"My pleasure." Gesturing, he added, "I think the cat is probably still asleep on the couch."
At the thought of going with him into the front room, Maggie felt her tension return. The kitchen was safe somehow, not as comfortable. Grow up, Maggie. Adults do sometimes have conversations in places other than kitchens.
After the barren aura of the back of the house, the living room was a surprise. It was welcoming, designed for relaxing and reading and quiet conversation. Curled in a corner of the couch, looking considerably cleaner than Maggie had ever seen him, was the old torn.
"Wake up, you old lazy," Joel growled, scooping the cat into his arms. There were still knots in the cat's fur, and one ear drooped sadly. He meowed softly at Joel, who turned to Maggie. "Meet Moses Many-Toes."
She gave him a puzzled smile. "Many-Toes?"
"Look." He tugged one of the cat's paws, and Moses let it dangle in Joel's hand like a lady awaiting a kiss from a count. Beyond the normal five claws and pads, this cat had three more that jutted out like a big thumb, giving his paw the appearance of a hand.
"He could practically toss a baseball," she commented dryly. "Will he bolt if I pet him?"
"I don't think so—just go easy. He doesn't have much trust to spare."
Gingerly, Maggie stretched her fingers forward for the cat to smell. When he seemed to accept her, she rubbed his blunt, broad head, carefully skirting the ear. "Why, he's as soft as down," she said with wonder. "You're a good old cat, aren't you?" The cat's eyes blinked lazily, and a rusty purr sounded in the quiet room.
Touched that he had found refuge after so long a time of suffering, Maggie looked up at Joel to find him watching her closely. "You're an unusual man, Joel."
He made a depreciative noise. "So I've been told." He turned to settle the cat back into his corner. "Have a seat," he invited, taking one of the chairs by the window.
Maggie followed suit. A deep and pregnant pause fell between them, and after enduring it for a moment, casting around for something to say, she risked a glance at him. At the same moment, he turned to look at her. With a ripple of intuition, Maggie finally understood that he was nearly as nervous as she. Impulsively, she grinned. "You know, I hear your marches
in the morning."
"Do you?" He straightened. "I should turn them down, then."
"No, please don't. It's part of sharing walls. You're a hundred times more polite than a great many of the neighbors I've had over the years." She sipped her coffee. "I'm sure you hear us, too."
He grinned. "MTV when you're gone."
Maggie laughed. "Samantha turns it on to do her housework. Does she play it too loud?"
"No, not at all." He glanced at Maggie and smiled. "I mean, it's loud, but I can live with it. She's just a kid."
"That's kind of you. Not everyone is patient with children."
"I like kids."
"Do you have any of your own?"
"No." For a brief span, a sadness flitted over his face. "No," he repeated, "things didn't work that way for me."
"You sound like you've lost your only chance. You must be what? Thirty-five? Men have fathered nations at sixty."
He half shrugged. "We'll see."
Maggie glanced at him, at the sudden distance reflected in his eyes, and she felt again that there was something in his past that gave him pain. She sipped her coffee.
As if uncomfortable with the turn in the conversation, he asked, "Where's Samantha today?"
"She goes to church with my grandmother. I go to the eight o'clock service, but Samantha refuses to get up that early on a weekend morning. They usually have lunch and spend the afternoon together."
"I've seen your grandmother," he said. "The elegant lady?"
Maggie nodded with a grin. "That's her."
"Is that where you get that Texas sound in your voice?"
"I didn't know I had one." Maggie frowned quizzically. "Do I?"
"A little bit—just a word here and there. I heard it when you talked to the cat."
Maggie laughed. "They tell me I had a right proper slur until I went to school. And I've never even visited Texas—isn't that strange?"
"Was your grandmother around?"
"Yes." With a barely audible sigh, a reflexive gesture linked to any mention of her childhood, she said, "My father was stationed at Fort Carson until I was seven. My mother doesn't have a drawl anymore, but she must have when I was a child—they'd only been in Colorado for a year or so when my parents got married."
"Are you an army brat?"
"Yes," she said, immediately defensive.
"I would never have guessed."
"Is there something you look for? A mark on the forehead or something?"
Joel grinned. "I didn't mean it like that—army kids always made me feel like the biggest hick in the world."
"Really? Why?"
"Your living rooms had things from Germany and Europe and Okinawa." He laughed, meeting her gaze briefly before glancing toward the cat stretching and resettling on the couch. "You all had braces when you needed them and had seen dozens of places that were just names on a map to me."
Maggie laughed in sympathy. "And I envied the natives of whatever city we were living in with a spirit bordering on hatred. You all had friends you'd known since kindergarten, and you didn't have to start school in a new place all the time or live with the prejudice some entire towns hold against the military."
He lifted his coffee cup in a mock toast. "To shattered misconceptions," he said.
Maggie grinned and touched his cup. "Did you grow up here, Joel?"
He nodded, looking into his cup. "It's been a long time since I've lived here. I left to go to college and didn't come back until eight months ago."
"Where'd you go to school?"
"Colorado State and Cornell."
"Cornell? Well, now," she said with a teasing lilt to her words, "I had no idea I was in the company of such a nimble brain."
Joel laughed—a rich, earthy sound. "I'm no smarter than the next guy. Just dedicated. Like a pit bull."
Maggie looked at him. He was undoubtedly dedicated, but the brains were there, too.
Another still pause fell between them, a space of moments Maggie filled by letting her gaze wander around his living room. Predictably, the books on the shelves leaned toward the natural sciences, and there was a huge collection of titles on birds. But there were other books, as well—Longfellow and Wordsworth, a cross section of modern paperbacks and a handful of the kinds of books required for a college English credit.
On the walls hung a distinctive selection of framed photographs: a trio of hawks at dawn; an empty beach; a single, watering deer. They were lonely photos. She wondered silently if he had taken them.
"So, Maggie," he said, breaking her reverie, "I was planning to go out in a little while, go up to the mountains. Would you like to come along?"
Such a straightforward invitation, she thought, biting her lip—but spending time with him wasn't the way to overcome her crush. Even now, as he waited calmly for her answer, he exuded an astonishing level of sexual appeal. Was it his eyes? His shoulders? His wide mouth?
Joel tried to maintain a poised facade, but he felt Maggie's intense perusal. When her pale brown eyes tangled with his, he was surprised by the sultriness in them. For a moment, he let himself meet that fire, feeling his breath fill his chest with hot pressure, but when his imagination provided him with a vision of her, tawny and tigerlike beneath him, he inhaled slowly. "What do you say?" he asked.
His rough voice rolled all the way down her spine, pooling with velvet vibration in her lower back. "Yes," she said. "I'd like that."
"Good." He stood up. "Why don't we change clothes and meet outside in twenty minutes?"
"Okay." She rose to her feet, too, and was struck again with the delight of having a man standing so much taller than her—it was a distinct pleasure to feel small for a change. She felt a primitive security in his size.
With a start, she realized she'd been staring far too long into his jeweled eyes. "I'll meet you on the porch," she said hastily.
At home, she changed quickly into a T-shirt and jeans, straightened up the house and left a note for Samantha. As she secured her front door behind her, she saw Joel lowering a pack into the back of his truck. He'd exchanged his tank top for a long-sleeved cotton shirt that did nothing to hide his powerful physique. They weren't the muscles of a weight lifter, bunchy and obvious. Rather, Maggie thought, they were like the sleek, healthy configurations of a stallion. There was nothing she could do to prevent the recurring visions she had of running her palms over him. All over him. The thought made her grin to herself.
"Ready?" he said, lifting his heavy, dark brows. Maggie smoothed her grin away with the tips of her fingers. "Sure."
"Do you mind if I play some blues?" he asked as he settled next to her in the cab of the pickup.
"Not at all."
He pushed a waiting cassette into the tape deck, and the mellow southern cords of Sonny and Brownie filled the cab.
"I have a brother who's a blues fanatic," Maggie commented.
"Does he live around here, too?" Joel asked as he maneuvered the truck onto the road.
"Oh, no you don't," Maggie said. "I've been talking about myself nonstop." She brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. "Your turn. I know you like the blues and animals and that you're as smart as a whip."
"See, there it is," he said, throwing a dazzling glance at her. "That drawl—'lahk the blues.'"
"Not fair," she replied, refusing to be distracted. She needed to know more of him, needed to find some way to get a handle on who he was, exactly. "How many children in your family?"
"Four. Three girls and me."
"You must have been spoiled rotten."
Joel smiled, eyes on the road. "I'm also the youngest."
"Hmm," Maggie said, cocking her head. "Now I'm surprised."
"Why?"
"I don't know."
"Because," he said, his face suddenly serious, "you'd expect me to be a little more open, right?"
Startled at the insight, she stared at him. Grim tension gripped his jaw. "Exactly," she said finally.
His throat moved as he swallowed,
and he carefully negotiated a turn, heading west. When he spoke, each word was carefully enunciated. "I had a really rotten marriage." At a traffic light, he braked and looked at Maggie. "Since then, I haven't spent much time with women."
In his eyes, she caught an undiluted glimpse of raw emotion—pain and hunger, sorrow and entreaty. In that moment, she felt an inexplicable link spring up between them, a link far beyond infatuation or attraction. It was almost, she thought, as if she had suddenly climbed inside him and he in her, without touching at all.
A horn honked behind them, and Joel released the brake. He looked out the windshield. "Have you spent much time up Rampart Range road?" His voice showed nothing.
Maggie tried to match his tone. "Not really," she answered. She rubbed her palms together, staring out the window. The rhythm of her heart had nothing to do with the giddiness she had been feeling. It was terror, plain and simple. If he decided to draw her in, keeping this man at arm's length would be no easy feat.
As she watched the buildings grow sparse, the trees thick, she realized she had discovered the first flaw in her newly created sincere men category. Intensity. Yes, she thought, stealing a glance at his profile, that should have been obvious. A man couldn't very well be sincere without something motivating it. A certain amount of passion would be required.
She'd spent her life avoiding the emotional highs and lows that had proved so disastrous for her parents. Passion about anything was dangerous, a theory reinforced by the pain that had been reflected in Joel's eyes.
The farther they moved from the city, the more relaxed he became. By the time they reached the destination he had picked out, Maggie could sense a new man emerging, one more in line with the youngest child and only son in a family of daughters.
"Do you like to hike?" he asked.
"Depends on how difficult a hike it turns out to be," she countered. "I wouldn't be thrilled to have to cling to the edge of a cliff, for example."