by Tara Janzen
She glanced across the truck to see if he was warming up to the conversation. She hadn’t meant to give him a history of her wardrobe, but she felt if she could keep the conversation going, she could somehow bring it around to her chosen subject of breaking off. Unfortunately, Ty didn’t seem the least bit interested in clothing. The subject had struck him dumb, and if she wasn’t mistaken, actually made him look slightly grim.
“Thank you again for the peaches,” she said quickly, trying a new tack by referring to the jar of fruit Corey had brought to school for her on Monday. She’d already thanked Ty earlier in the evening, but she was running out of ideas. “They’ve been wonderful.”
“Our neighbor lady is famous for her spiced peaches,” Ty said, wondering why he cared so much that her rich old husband had dressed her in hand-me-downs. She certainly didn’t seem put off by the idea, and she wore the clothes. “She cans them every fall, and if we’re lucky, they last through Christmas.”
“It was very generous of you to share them, and everything else you sent, the green beans, and apple sauce, and beets.” Her stomach rumbled quietly, reminding her of her half-famished state.
“You’re welcome.”
“The tomato soup was very good too. Quite gourmet.” The conversation was struggling desperately, possibly dying. She had run out of gratitude. There must be another subject somewhere in her mind, she thought, if she could only find it.
“Corey isn’t much for soup,” he said. “But I know how hard it can be to cook for one person, or even two for that matter. Some days, trying to figure out what to cook for dinner is the hardest thing I do.”
“Goodness, yes,” she agreed, sensing the conversation was finally gaining a life of its own. “I don’t know how our cooks did it all those years. I find myself falling into a recipe rut, where I cook the same three things over and over until I can’t face them anymore.”
“Corey and I go round and round too. He could eat pizza four nights a week and hamburgers the other three. We eat a lot of beef, having the ranch and all, but I like mine as steak. At least you have to please only yourself.”
“Not necessarily an advantage,” she confessed on a wary note. “And there’s still the cooking to do, even after you decide what to eat. I could have single-handedly supported a Chinese restaurant this semester.”
“You like Chinese food?”
“I love it.” The not-so-quiet emptiness of her stomach backed her up. Chinese food sounded like heaven and just as far away.
“No kidding?” Ty was on a roll, back in control, and he couldn’t hide his satisfied grin.
“Well, I love the way Americans cook Chinese food. We were in New York once for about six months, and all we ate was Chinese food. Of course, when you’re in China, it’s not the same. It’s actually quite different. Moose nose and bear paw aren’t euphemisms, you know, and neither is bird’s nest soup.”
Ty hadn’t known, but he didn’t think Lacey had any moose noses or bear paws in her freezer. What she did have was a talent for dim sum and a poker debt.
“We’ve having Chinese food tomorrow night, if you’d like to come,” he said. He’d have to get down on his knees to get Lacey to cook for him on such short notice. On the other hand, she might welcome the opportunity. She was into him for about seventy dollars.
“Oh, I couldn’t. It’s a school night and—” They passed the Talbot grocery store, and Victoria braced herself to just come out and tell him she couldn’t possibly see him again. “And I really must—”
“Dim sum,” he interrupted. “Steamed dumplings, spring rolls, shrimp toast.”
Shrimp toast. Her mouth watered.
“Well, I have lessons to prepare, you see, and—”
“Wontons, those little scallion cakes, lots of steamed dumplings, some of them fried after they’ve been steamed, shrimp balls.”
“You can cook all those things?” she asked, her mind picturing every delectable, savory bite he was describing.
“I have a connection. Spicy chicken packages.”
Victoria couldn’t believe she was about to be seduced by her stomach against her better judgment, but that was exactly what was happening. Dim sum. Goodness, how long had it been?
“We always have this special apricot sauce for dipping. It’s real good,” he said.
She didn’t doubt it. Tiny spring rolls dipped in apricot sauce, steamed dumplings. Her judgment wavered, quaked, then toppled over in sensual abandonment. An unsettling sense of déjà vu swept over her. She ignored it.
“I didn’t have plans, really,” she said, “except for doing some grading. I suppose . . . well, the papers can wait another day without harm.” She would break off with him after the Chinese dinner. She promised. Right after wontons and steamed dumplings, she would assure him that she couldn’t possibly see him again. After she’d taken her fill of tiny spring rolls dipped in apricot sauce, after she’d sunk her teeth into half a dozen scallion cakes and savored a goodly share of shrimp balls, after all that, she would tell him there could be no more of this dating stuff.
How incredibly mercenary.
Using a man for food—what depths she’d sunk to.
“Great.” He stopped the truck, and Victoria realized with a start that they had arrived at her house, the end of their date, and the exact place of their last kiss. She wasn’t ready.
She scooted toward her door, wishing she were strong enough to enjoy his thoroughly wonderful kisses without being so overtaken by them.
“It’s been a very nice evening.” She wished, too, that she had more experience at this sort of thing. What did people say at these awkward, tension-filled moments that didn’t sound awkward and tension-filled?
“I had a good time too,” he said, smiling easily, which conversely made her feel even less at ease.
“That’s wonderful. I mean—well . . .” She didn’t know what she meant.
“You could invite me in for a cup of coffee, and I could draw up a map to the ranch.” The suggestion was made with a hopeful note in his voice.
“Oh, I couldn’t,” she said, her hand tightening on the door handle. She had already blown the big good-bye, and now even the little good-night good-bye was getting out of her control.
“You might get lost without it,” he said, “unless you would like me to come into town to get you.”
“No, I mean the coffee. I don’t have any coffee.”
“Oh” was all he said, intentionally throwing the ball back in her court. Victoria felt the social pressure to do the right thing mount and build and overwhelm her.
“Tea,” she blurted out. “I have tea.” She was using the man for dim sum. The least she could do was offer him tea.
“Great.” His grin returned with all its teasing promise, and she felt the flames of the fire lick up the sides of her proverbial frying pan and scorch her toes.
* * *
How did she get into these messes? she wondered. She never used to get into messes. She never used to get into anything, least of all trouble.
But she’d never seen anything resemble trouble as perfectly as the man leaning against her kitchen door, watching her put together a tea tray. He had taken his hat off and dropped it in a chair in the living room, right after he’d shrugged out of his coat and dropped it on the same chair. The moves had been casual, graceful, utterly at home, and they had unnerved her beyond reason.
She wasn’t used to having a man in the house, and she’d never had one in any house like Ty Garrett. His physical presence overwhelmed her even when she wasn’t sneaking glances at him, which was quite often—though always with the utmost discretion. She told herself she was keeping an eye on him to make sure he kept in his place. Then she asked herself who she was trying to fool. The man was easy to look at, seductively easy. His body was like a magnet for her eyes and tinder for her imagination. A less mature woman might have been overly fascinated by all the possibilities inherent in such an intriguingly prime specimen of manhood. Vi
ctoria assured herself she was merely curious.
She sneaked another peek.
Broad shoulders and a chest she would never forget filled out a zigzag-striped cowboy shirt of blue, pink, black, and purple, with opalescent snaps. His jeans were new, black, and fitted to perfection on his long legs and what she could describe only as his middle area. He was wearing a big silver buckle that said ALL AROUND-SKYLINE STAMPEDE. There was also a date that would have put him in his college days, his name engraved beneath a pair of boots with spurs, and some fancy scrollwork. If she looked carefully, she saw, too, what seemed to be wild roses twining over the numerals, and under the buckle, of course, was that mesmerizing, narrow-hipped, denim-hugged middle area.
In her whole life she had been around very few men built the way he was, and even fewer who wore jeans. Suddenly she felt deprived.
Ty felt warm, very warm, edging toward hot. Having Victoria look at his mouth was one thing. Having her memorize his belt buckle was another. He doubted if she realized what she was doing to him, but he was pretty sure she was going to realize it in a minute if she didn’t stop. He could have moved, and maybe that would have been the smart thing to do. But watching her stare at him was a seduction all its own, and it was over much too soon.
With a startled motion she went back to arranging her tea tray, breaking the tantalizing connection, but not breaking the mood. He wondered what his chances were of getting invited to spend the night.
Victoria nervously wet her lips and tucked up a loose strand of her hair, wondering what had gotten into her. Her appetite had fled. Her face was warm, and she had an unruly desire to look at him again, to move closer and touch him, and to quite possibly do other things as well.
Instead, she tucked up another loose auburn curl and rallied her composure. Taking a firm hold on the tray, she turned and forced herself to face him with only polite thoughts.
“Shall we have our tea in the living room?”
“Sounds good.” He pushed off the door frame and took the tray from her, smiling in a way that riveted her gaze to his mouth and deepened her blush. A week ago he’d kissed her, and she had the feeling he could very easily do it again . . . possibly over tea.
She led the way into the living room, dismayed and yet excited by her wayward thoughts. Ty Garrett was a bad influence of previously unsuspected proportions. She should no doubt forgo the Chinese dinner, retract her offer of tea, and ask him to leave. Those were the circumspect, sensible things to do.
Instead, she sat down on the couch and asked him how he liked his tea.
“Straight.” He sat down next to her, close but not touching.
Victoria arranged her skirt closer to her body and reached for the teapot.
“The ranch is three miles east of town,” he said.
“Yes.” She turned her head and gave him a small smile. “You had mentioned that.”
“Due east.”
“I think you mentioned that also.” She lifted the teapot.
“You just take the main street straight out of town. There’s a big sign telling you when you get to the Sky Canyon Ranch. It says John and Sylvie Garrett, but I’ve been running it on my own now for about the last seven years, since before the folks passed away.” His voice grew quieter as he spoke.
Her hand stilled, and she slowly lowered the teapot back down to the tray. He was definitely telling her something.
“There’s a big gate with a double ‘G’ bar brand burned into it. You can’t miss it.”
She didn’t doubt it.
“I’ll send Corey down about five o’clock to help you with the gate.”
“That’s very thoughtful.” Her own voice was a bare whisper. The map suggestion had been a ruse, and he was telling her, actually confessing, that the only thing he had really wanted was to get her alone inside her house, where any of her wildest ideas could happen. It was very forward of him, and it made her pulse race.
No man of such short acquaintance had ever confessed to wanting her for anything other than a study partner or a lab partner. She and Ty had nothing of the sort in common. Academics, she knew, was the last thing on his mind.
In a fit of nervous energy she finished pouring. The spout of the pot rattled against a china cup and a bit of tea splashed onto his saucer.
“Excuse me,” she murmured, using an embroidered napkin to clean up the tiny mess. She picked up the teapot again and poured her own tea, splashing a bit on her saucer too.
“Goodness,” she murmured again. Everything on the tray jiggled when she set the pot down. She grabbed for the cream pitcher, but succeeded only in making it spill more. “Excuse me.”
She concentrated on reorganizing the tray, cleaning up tea and cream, dabbing and sopping, painfully aware of her increasing clumsiness—until a strong, warm hand covered hers.
Seven
Ty brought her hand to his mouth, turning it palm-up, and brushed his lips over her fingertips. The intimacy of the gesture alarmed and thrilled her. She most certainly should have pulled her hand away, but all her “shoulds” were made weak by the gentle yearning in his caress.
Capturing her gaze with his, he placed another kiss in her palm, then traced her lifeline with his tongue. Without a doubt it was the most amazingly erotic thing that had ever happened to her, and finally she did the sensible thing. She froze solid as an arctic waterfall in December.
Ty noticed, with no small amount of chagrin.
Letting out a deep sigh, he lowered his gaze to their hands and wrapped his fingers around hers.
“Do I frighten you?” he asked, keeping his voice quiet and carefully looking up at her.
“No. I don’t think so. I don’t think frighten is the word.” Her own eyes were downcast, her movements agitated as she pulled her hand free.
“Maybe you don’t like me? Is that it?”
“No, goodness, no. I like you, Mr. Garrett, possibly too much.”
“I see,” he said, though he didn’t.
“Actually, I’m trying not to frighten you,” she said, her voice full of hesitation. “I have . . . you see, a rather unsuspected . . . licentious nature.”
Ty was about to reassure her of his courage in facing these kinds of situations, when her closing statement caught him completely off guard. She couldn’t have surprised him more if she’d hit him with a two-by-four. He wondered if he needed to double-check the definition of licentious. She couldn’t possibly mean what he thought she meant.
“Are you sure?” he asked, not knowing what he felt more strongly, intrigued or confused.
“Quite.” She situated herself a little farther away from him on the couch. “I’m afraid it’s been proven beyond doubt.”
“By who?” He’d never met a licentious woman, but he would have staked the ranch that Victoria didn’t fit the description.
With a sign of resignation Victoria realized it was best to tell him the whole sordid story. She had inadvertently stumbled upon the perfect way to bring their budding relationship to its necessary end. Truth be told, though, it lacked any of the decorum and grace she had wanted to instill in their good-bye. It most certainly would mean an end to his wonderful kisses and that amazing thing he’d done to her hand with his tongue. Goodness only knows where that bit of playfulness would have led.
“There was a young man at Oxford,” she began, thoroughly discouraged by what she had to say. She picked up a pair of sterling silver sugar tongs and dropped two cubes into her teacup. “I met him shortly after Charles and I had married. He seemed a very nice sort.”
For Ty, the mention of Charles made sense out of the confusion. He settled back into the couch, prepared to dislike her husband even more.
“His name was John Williams,” she went on, “very solid background, good family, excellent student. He was there on scholarship.” Victoria knew she was smoothing things over, but she didn’t want Ty to think what had happened had been John’s fault. Charles had made it clear who was to blame, and she’d never had
reason to doubt Charles’s wisdom. Later, John’s faults had become quite apparent, but the beginning of the trouble had been of her own making.
“We met in study group,” she continued, “then started going to the library together, helping each other with research and whatnot. There was an . . . attraction.”
Ty got the feeling he was listening to some kind of confession, but he wasn’t sure to what she was confessing. The last time he’d checked, being attracted to someone wasn’t a sin. Of course, she had been married, and he had yet to hear the part about her licentious behavior.
“I thought I knew what was happening,” she continued, “at least on my part, yet I did nothing to discourage the relationship. Friends my own age were so rare. I allowed myself to enjoy John’s company. Charles, to his credit, realized I was becoming foolishly enamored of the boy, as he put it, and not just nurturing a friendship.”
“How old was John?” Ty asked, trying to imagine the old man in the photograph lecturing Victoria on being foolish. The image was all too easy to conjure up.
“Young,” she replied. “Twenty-four, four years older than me. He was quite handsome”—she slid Ty a glance from beneath her lashes—“not unlike yourself.”
Ty had to fight back a grin at her admission, but he wasn’t grinning about anything else. Twenty-four-year-old men were notorious for their hormones, and unlike Charles, Ty wasn’t jumping at a chance to lay licentious blame at Victoria’s feet, not on the basis of what he’d heard so far.
“One night we met at the library as usual, but inadvertently stayed much longer than we normally did. The room we were in was far removed from the rest of the library, and we were the only people there.” She reached for her tea and took a sip. Color rose in her cheeks. “I can’t even remember now what we were discussing, but it seemed terribly important at the time. I do recall that at one point we reached a deeper understanding of the problem at hand, and in that moment we reached for each other like comrades in arms.” She cleared her throat, a tiny distressed sound, and took another sip of tea. “Things got rather out of hand after that.”