After the board members moved on to mingle, Jesse caught sight of Peter Crandall strolling past in a high-and-mighty manner. Rather than ignore Peter's condescending stare, Jesse raised his glass at the fair-haired attorney, then brought the champagne to his lips. Pleasure followed the bubbling liquid down his throat. The mocking toast had felt nearly as good as socking Peter's snobbish jaw and watching it bruise. Jesse smiled as Tricia led him toward their assigned table. Maybe he could handle this society stuff after all.
Then again, maybe not, he decided fifteen minutes later. Dinner started with a watercress salad seasoned with a tangy vinaigrette dressing. Jesse would have preferred lettuce and tomatoes smothered in ranch. He almost felt silly eating delicate greens from a cut-glass platter. Suddenly his hands seemed big and clumsy. But hopefully no one would notice, especially since he was sandwiched between two beautiful women. Tricia graced his right while a stunning blonde sipped champagne on his left.
When the soup arrived, Jesse breathed a sigh of relief. It appeared to be a down-home broth, a cream of something-or-other. Potato, maybe, with chives sprinkled on top. He could handle that. He grew chives in his garden.
He dipped into his soup, swallowed a spoonful, then flinched. It was cold. Ice cold. Good God. He'd already suffered through that frilly salad.
He waited until Tricia tasted her soup, then leaned toward her and pressed his mouth to her ear. "Mine's cold," he whispered. "Is yours all right?"
"Yes," she whispered back. "It's supposed to be served chilled."
Mortified, he felt his face sting with the heat of embarrassment. "Oh. Sorry."
"That's okay. It grows on you."
But fancy balls never would, he decided. Jesse Hawk didn't belong in Tricia Boyd's world. Hell, she was probably thinking she should have left him back at the farm.
* * *
He was incredible, Patricia thought. Real and refreshing. She didn't care if he didn't know what vichyssoise was. Over half the population in America had probably never eaten chilled potato-and-leek soup.
Jesse squared his shoulders, and Patricia's heart gave a little lurch. The fact that he'd successfully paired a ponytail with a tuxedo proved his sense of unpretentious style. The women at their table kept stealing admiring glances, and since Jesse had never been prone to small talk, the few words he'd offered held meaning—profound depth. He was, by far, the most intriguing man at the party.
Maybe too intriguing. By the time their waiter served dessert, Michelle Page, the blonde on Jesse's left, stared blatantly at his profile, drinking in those gorgeous features: the hollowed cheekbones, chiseled jaw, slightly aquiline nose.
Don't you dare, Patricia wanted to say. Michelle had already taken enough that should have belonged to her, including the homecoming queen crown during their senior year at Arrow Hill High. To continue a teenage rivalry seemed a bit petty, but Michelle had kept it alive all these years, flaunting her accomplishments and treating Patricia badly in the process.
Michelle licked the whipped cream from her cappuccino, her tongue darting daintily. She'd always used those full, overly glossed lips to her best advantage, pouting prettily when she didn't get her way. Patricia cringed inwardly. Men, no matter their age or level of intelligence, usually panted at her feet.
"You're the new veterinarian, aren't you?" Michelle cooed to Jesse's profile.
He turned, and Patricia wondered if he was smiling. Or drooling. She couldn't see his face.
"Yes. Jesse Hawk. Nice to meet you."
She extended her hand, then tilted her head, spilling golden waves over her shoulder. "Michelle Page. You don't happen to have a business card available, do you?"
Witch, Patricia thought. She'd recited her name and asked for Jesse's number all in the same breath.
"Sure." He removed a card from his jacket and handed it to her.
Michelle tucked it into an evening bag that matched her dress, white satin and silver sequins showcasing every curve she owned. "I have an Afghan named Sasha, and I have the feeling she would adore you."
"Afghans are wonderful dogs," Jesse said. "Naturally well mannered and elegant."
The blonde smiled as though the compliment had been meant for her, then cut into a strawberry lime tart. "This is my favorite dessert." She tasted it and moaned. "I think it's all that spun sugar."
A sugarcoated tart, Patricia thought, how fitting.
Michelle lifted a forkful toward Jesse. "Do you want a bite?"
He didn't answer, but he didn't move, either. Was he stunned? Aroused? Opening his mouth to be fed? Patricia wanted to kill them both. Murder them with her bare hands. Mavis Delinsky, the chair of the Arrow Hill Arts Council, watched from the other side of the table, her faced pinched in disapproval. Was it Michelle's abominable manners that bothered Mrs. Delinsky, or Jesse's typically male reaction?
Finally he spoke, lowering his head to the dessert in front of him. "No, thank you. I have my own." He turned toward Patricia then, lifting his gaze. "Would you like to dance?"
Since her heart had suddenly stuck quite happily in her throat, she nodded, rather than choke out a response. She'd been too busy with jealous thoughts to notice the band had begun to play.
He rose and asked the other guests to excuse them as he scooted Patricia's chair away from the table. Mrs. Delinsky smiled and nodded. Michelle huffed like an insolent child.
Jesse and Patricia joined the other couples on the dance floor. The romantic music, reminiscent of the era of the house, lulled Patricia into a trance. Or was it Jesse's arms? The gentle way in which he held her, his hand sliding down her back, teasing her spine?
They fit perfectly, the length of their bodies a sensual match. Men were rarely tall enough to suit her, but then she had compared every man to him, to his commanding height.
"We always felt right," he said, as though reading her mind. "Like we were meant to dance together."
She closed her eyes as his fingertips sparked an electrical charge down her spine. The first time he'd touched her, she'd known he was the one. "I remember."
He dipped his head, his breath brushing her ear. "Did you wear this dress for me?"
Did she? Maybe subconsciously. Her bare back used to be a fascination of his, a place to nip and kiss and nuzzle. She opened her eyes, forced herself to remember her surroundings: the other couples, the orchestra, the guests who sipped international coffee and watched the dance floor.
"Is it warm in here?" she asked.
"Your skin is warm."
He drew her closer and she realized he danced the way he made love—slowly and provocatively, a motion as smooth as a river current, as alluring and dangerous. She could feel his muscles beneath his jacket, a body she knew, yet didn't. The change in him aroused as much as frightened her. He could still hypnotize her, make her believe she belonged exclusively to him. She knew everyone in the room must have thought so, too. They probably looked like lovers who'd rekindled their long-ago-but-not-forgotten affair. By now their past was public knowledge. Patricia Boyd was dancing with the father of her child, melting bonelessly in his arms.
As the orchestra began another song, Jesse swept her into the rhythm. Patricia danced regularly at these functions, and other men customarily cut in on her partners. But that wasn't going to happen this time, she realized. Jesse had staked his claim, his hold gentle but unmistakably possessive.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked.
"You," she answered automatically. Her eyes locked on his, and beneath the ballroom lights his gleamed like polished silver—the lining on the cloud she found herself floating upon. Lying wasn't possible, not when she bordered the gates of Heaven. "You're an incredible dancer."
A fleeting smile teased his lips. She resisted the urge to capture it with a kiss. "Only because of you. You taught me, remember?"
"Yes." She remembered, all too well.
She could see them in his tiny apartment swaying to the radio. A dance step, a caress. A twirl. An affectionate nibbl
e. She'd taught him to dance, and later that night, he'd schooled her in the art of lovemaking. It hadn't been the first time they'd made love, but it was one of the most erotic. He'd undressed her in front of the mirror, then trailed kisses down her body while she'd watched their reflections. Watched until her heart pounded and her vision blurred, his mouth and hands driving her beyond the brink of sanity.
Struggling to clear her mind, Patricia gripped Jesse's shoulders. "Could we go outside, please? I think I need some air."
They found a secluded bench on the nearest terrace, a corner shielded by potted ferns and indigenous flowers. Patricia took a deep, cleansing breath. Stars dazzled a velvet sky and sweet, exotic scents thrived in the night air. A few feet away water spilled from a fountain of dancing cherubs.
"This is perfect," she said.
"Are you sure you're okay? You looked a bit dizzy back there."
"The dance floor was too crowded." And her memories too close. Too real.
"Are you cold? I can get your wrap or you can wear my jacket."
"No, thank you. I'm fine." The breeze felt good. Life sustaining. Freedom from the heat that came with Jesse. "Did you enjoy the meal?" she asked, steering the conversation toward idle chitchat.
"The salmon was good." He glanced down at his hands then back up. "But I didn't like the soup."
And he didn't like not knowing what it was. His body language told her so, during dinner and now. "Truthfully it's not one of my favorites, either. Next time I can find out what's on the menu."
"You mean there's going to be a next time?"
"There is if you'll agree to escort me."
When he tilted his head, moonlight gleamed upon his hair. "Will you wear another backless dress?"
The night air tickled her spine. "I suppose that could be arranged." She had a closet full of ball gowns, gauntlet gloves and satin pumps. She'd wear whatever pleased him. "I have to warn you, though. Sometimes they serve chilled pumpkin soup."
He made a face, and they both laughed. "I guess chicken noodle is out, huh?"
"Afraid so."
"Pot roast, too?"
Pot roast. Patricia moved closer and took his hand. Jesse was such a country boy, always finding pleasure in the simplest of things. "You've been a wonderful escort, Jesse."
"Adapting to the environment, am I?" He chuckled and squeezed her hand. "If we were on my turf, I would have punched Peter Crandall's lights out. He kept giving us dirty looks."
She sent him an amused smile. If they'd been on his turf, maybe she could have dragged Michelle into a cat fight. Ripped the blonde's hair out by its hidden dark roots.
As Jesse urged her head to his shoulder, Patricia willed the image away. The evening was too beautiful to waste on disruptive thoughts.
Apparently Jesse agreed. They sat quietly for a time, listening to the notes of old-fashioned music flutter through the breeze like melodious butterflies. Suddenly they were the only two people on earth, sharing the sky, absorbing the elements.
Jesse lifted his hand to her cheek, and she realized how much he belonged to those elements. She could feel beauty in his touch, the glow of the moon, lull of the wind. He was a part of something wondrous, and so was she.
"Tricia?" he whispered, his unspoken question clear.
He wanted to kiss her, was asking for permission.
Patricia closed her eyes, her answer rising like a tide, a warm, inviting wave. "Yes."
His mouth took hers, swept her into the taste of his lips, his tongue. She inhaled the faint scent of his cologne and shifted in his arms, giving those big, callused hands access to the dip in her dress, her naked back and tingling spine.
Need, not naiveté, drove her. She knew what she wanted, recognized the hunger. The danger. The overwhelming thrill.
He caressed her skin and sipped from her lips, making love to her mouth with slow, sexy strokes. She could almost recall what it felt like to have him inside her, thrusting rhythmically, his flesh hot and hard beneath her fingers.
He came up for air, his breath raspy and aroused. "We shouldn't be doing this."
"I know." Dizzy, she blinked to bring him into focus. "Do you want to stop?"
His short laugh came out broken—rough and sexy. "No. Do you?"
Not now, she thought, as she pulled him closer. On this seductive summer evening he tasted like the Jesse she remembered. The young, passionate man she had loved.
She slid her tongue into his mouth and sighed. Tomorrow she would probably suffer the consequences of her actions, but tonight she simply didn't care.
* * *
Chapter 7
« ^ »
Today was awkward. First Patricia had struggled through breakfast with her father, knowing he disapproved of her most recent "friendship date" with Jesse. And now she was at Jesse's house, seated on his sofa, pretending they hadn't kissed each other senseless the other night.
"Isn't Barney great, Mom?" Dillon asked.
She nodded and smiled. The parrot bounced across the coffee table, dancing to country music coming from the stereo. "He's adorable."
She looked up and caught Jesse's eye. His lips were curved into a smile, too—those moist, sexy lips she had all but devoured. God help her, but she could still taste him.
"How did you teach Barney to do all this stuff?" Dillon asked his father.
"African grays are extremely intelligent birds. And given half the chance, most parrots will do more than just mimic." Jesse opened a small wooden box above the stereo and removed a stack of flash cards. "Okay, Barney," he said, holding up a yellow square. "Tell Dillon what color this is."
The parrot waddled over to the edge of the table and eyed the sunny paper, then looked at Dillon as if to make sure the child was watching. Apparently the bird enjoyed having an enthusiastic eleven-year-old as his captive audience.
"Yellow," Barney squawked, bobbing his head proudly.
Both Jesse and Dillon praised the spirited parrot. "Good boy," they said in unison, then laughed.
Patricia's heart warmed. Father and son had just shared their first spontaneous moment—a burst of casual laughter.
Fifteen minutes later Patricia and Dillon followed Jesse on a tour of his house, Dillon's newfound friend in tow. "This is my room," Jesse said, as they entered his woodsy domain.
Dillon moved forward, Barney perched quietly upon his shoulder. "Wow, look at the bed."
Yes, Patricia thought, look at the bed—the place where Jesse slept each night. The four-poster bed was handmade from pine logs, crafted to rugged perfection. A thick, homey quilt displayed a native print, while sage burned from a clay pot, purifying the air.
Patricia's throat constricted. The room was much too inviting, a natural setting for lovers to share during warm summer nights and chilled winter dreams. A place to cuddle and raise a brood of happy, healthy children.
"Did you build the bed yourself?" Dillon asked his father. Jesse nodded and stroked the wood. Patricia followed the movement of his hand, the masculine caress.
"It's beautiful," she offered.
"Thank you." He looked up and their eyes met. And for a moment they held. And remembered.
Everything, she realized: the first time they had shared a bed; their disciplined tutoring sessions; the afternoon he'd left town; the charity ball two days ago. Their lips meeting, tasting, hungering for more. She could still hear the music blending with the spray from the fountain, the cherubs dancing on water.
Patricia glanced away. No more romantic evenings. Being alone with Jesse was much too dangerous now. He was off-limits, she decided, unless their son was present. She'd have to forfeit that offer to have him escort her to another charity ball. Next time they'd probably end up kissing on the dance floor, and then her father would be privy to the gossip it would cause. The last thing she wanted was to be accused of being naive again.
The tour of Jesse's house ended in a country-style kitchen, a large room with a scarred wooden table, an old-fashioned stove and cho
pping-block counters. Just like the rest of the simple homestead, the kitchen whispered of the past. Patricia thought Jesse had done a beautiful job of transforming the farmhouse into a modern haven for his animals and a well-tended herb garden.
"My mom's learning to cook," Dillon announced as Jesse prepared sandwiches for lunch. "Aren't you, Mom?"
Patricia nearly dropped the soda Jesse had given her. Dillon's words boomed in the air, a sudden reminder of who she was—a thirty-year-old woman who had never done a day's worth of domestic work in her life.
"Elda's teaching me to make a few things." A lopsided cake, chicken that tasted dry, overly browned biscuits, lumpy gravy. Of course none of the disasters were Elda's fault. Patricia had managed the mistakes all on her own. But allowing Elda to take over would have been cheating.
Jesse turned toward her, an amused smirk alight on his handsome face. Damn him, she thought. He moved with ease, making sandwiches from a meat loaf he'd cooked the night before. He could build a bed, vet a horse, wash his own clothes and bake a meat loaf. It wasn't fair that he never failed at anything. Whatever Jesse Hawk did, he did well. Including kiss, she added, staring at his mouth once again.
"Hey, Mom," Dillon said, tapping the table. Her son sat across from her, hand-feeding Barney from a bowl of diced fruit. "Why don't you cook dinner for me and Dad next week? Show us what you learned."
Patricia fought the urge to panic. What was she supposed to make? Burned biscuits and lumpy gravy? A lopsided lemon cake for dessert? "Your dad might be busy next week."
Jesse brought the sandwiches to the table and shooed Barney away when the bird got nosy. "Are you kidding? I wouldn't miss the opportunity for a home-cooked meal. Any night you say is fine."
"That's great," Dillon chimed.
Wonderful. How could she refuse now? Jesse and Dillon were smiling at each other. Dillon had just referred to Jesse as Dad for the first time in his father's presence, something Patricia knew Jesse had been waiting for. A family bond had just taken place, making her dilemma that much harder. And Dillon looked so proud, so eager to show off her culinary skills. He hadn't been home to sample the disastrous effects of her cooking lessons.
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