“Which is why I live in an isolated farmhouse,” said Carston.
Surprised, Sherry stopped walking. “You live in an isolated farmhouse? That’s the last place I imagined you in.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. You’re so…so urbane. Therefore urban.” She laughed shortly. “I picture you in a very elegant New York apartment, cocktail in hand and surrounded by sophisticated mistresses.”
“If that’s the image I give off, it’s totally misleading,” he said. “No elegant New York apartment and rarely a cocktail.”
“At least I got one out of three right.” She sniffed, tried to hide the sudden ridiculous, totally uncalled-for pinch of jealousy.
He laughed outright, his eyes sparkling mischievously. “Actually, you didn’t even get one right. Sophisticated mistresses don’t appreciate isolated farmhouses and a man more obsessed by his work than the social whirl. Sophisticated mistresses don’t take kindly to long walks over fields or through the woods. For my part, I detest the cocktail parties, clubs, crowds, and impersonal chitchat that sophisticated mistresses seem to favor.”
“Looks like we hate the same things then, but Charlie always looks at me as if I’m ready for the glue factory when I say things like that.”
They turned onto a sandy path leading between young birch and pine trees, where the tang of mushrooms and damp leaves filled the air.
“How about you?” Carston asked. “What sort of life do you lead?”
“What do you imagine it’s like?”
He looked down at her, as if evaluating what he saw. “I don’t know, really. I suppose I have the usual stereotype in mind. A country music singer has to live near some wilderness, perhaps on a prairie or in the mountains. But the way you dress, the make-up, the hair, none of that goes along with the great outdoors and a lonely wooden cabin in the back of beyond. And you did just tell me you never get out into the country.”
She chuckled. “Actually, I live in a penthouse in Memphis. The closest I get to ranching is herding red spider off my house plants.”
“You’ve been married?”
She nodded. “I have been. Twice.”
He waited for her to elaborate. She didn’t. “Is this something you’d prefer not talking about?”
She shrugged. “It’s not that. It just seems that if you want to learn about someone, there are more important subjects than ex-husbands.”
“More important subjects? To my way of thinking, hearing about ex-husbands is definitely a way of learning about someone.”
“You can find out all about failed marriages in magazines like Star and Glitzy. To me, important personal things are favorite books or preferred ice cream flavors.”
“You wouldn’t happen to be hedging?” But he still smiled. “And I can promise you, I’ll never read Star.”
She shrugged. “Okay. It’s just…Well, I suppose there’s not an awful lot to say about either marriage, not the first, and not the second. Neither one was programmed to last. They were just a mixture of show business confusion and crossed wires. I suppose they were inevitable, in some way.”
“How were they inevitable?”
“Wanting a home was essential to me back then. So was security. You see, my own mother got pregnant, but she didn’t want a child. I never knew who my father was. I certainly wasn’t a happy kid because I just didn’t believe anyone could ever love me. So I just rebelled against everything. The one really good thing I did do, was start singing in a choir when I was twelve. I loved it.”
“Don’t quite a few singers get started that way?”
“They do. Being in a choir is great training, and it gives you the feeling of belonging somewhere. But because I was rebellious, I ran away from home on my sixteenth birthday. My idea was to hit Nashville and get discovered, but that didn’t happen instantly. There are millions of people trying to break into the music world.”
“And very few actually make it.”
“Absolutely true. But pure belief and determination can carry you a long way. For years, I struggled along, worked at every job you can think of, as a waitress, a barmaid, a dog walker, a dog groomer, anything, and I sang wherever I could—in bars, parties, at backwoods music festivals. And the whole time, I haunted libraries and read about traditional music. Then, one day, I met Bobby Blake, and he became my first husband.”
“Even I’ve heard his name, and I know nothing about the country music scene.” The warmth in Carston’s voice had vanished. “And being Bobby Blake’s wife got you where you wanted to be.”
She stopped walking, peered up at him. Saw the nerve ticking in his jaw. What was going on? Why was he sounding so suspicious, so… bitter? “That’s unfair,” she countered. “This is my story and you have to let me tell it my way.”
“Sorry.” He relaxed slightly.
She’d obviously hit a nerve, though. His eyes were wary, and his posture was defensive. “I bet I know what you’re thinking,” she said slowly.
“Really?”
“Really.” She wasn’t put off by the chill in his voice. “You’ve decided I was an ambitious young nobody who slept with and snagged a star in the music world. That I used him to promote my act and divorced him when I was well known.”
From his expression, she was certain she’d hit the nail on the head, but he merely shrugged. “Let’s just say that’s the sort of situation I’m quite familiar with. I can’t begin to tell you how many actors and actresses have found me very attractive ever since I made a name for myself. And those are usually the ones who pretended I didn’t exist during the long years when I was a struggling writer.”
“Well, if you think I’m like that, you’re wrong,” she said heatedly. “I never used Bobby Blake. This was many years ago, way back when. And way back then, Bobby Blake was just starting out, like me. All we did was join forces to fight our way into the music business as a winning combination. On stage, at least.”
“And offstage? Didn’t love come into the picture?”
“I’m not sure it did. For me, Bobby was a friend and a partner, although he was a very possessive one. He was the one who pushed for marriage, and that marriage was no fun at all. Bobby became violently jealous. He spied on me, had detectives prying into my every move. Things got so bad, I couldn’t even go to a supermarket without him following me, screaming at me, threatening me, accusing me of flirting with every man on the street. In the end, I wasn’t even allowed to talk to our musicians. I had no choice but to leave if I wanted to be a singer—or if I wanted to survive.”
“And the second marriage?”
“Another disaster. Our manager, Terry Linden, hid me from Bobby who was trying to force me to come back and threatening to kill me if I didn’t. I was so grateful to Terry for his protection. He kept me feeling safe, but security isn’t the same thing as love. After hanging on in there for too many years, we finally admitted we had nothing in common and that our marriage was a mistake.”
“No children?”
“I never thought it would be right to impose an itinerant life style on children. As old-fashioned as it sounds, I really do believe the word family means a mother, a father, and a stable home life. And I’ve never thought nannies and au pairs are a good solution either. What about you?”
“Me?” He shook his head. “Hard to imagine myself with children. I was married once, a long time ago and very briefly, but I’ve never had the desire to marry again or even live with anyone.”
“Never?”
“Never. I’m a writer, and I need solitude. I love it. I’m a dyed-in-the-wool loner. I hate telephones, fax machines, and I avoid the Internet as much as I can. I don’t even own a cell phone. You see? Anti-social. Therefore, I’m not the right person for a lasting relationship and the social demands that would entail.”
“The way my attempts at marriage went, I suppose I could say the same thing,” Sherry said slowly. But his words piqued her. Well, at least she could give him credit for being honest a
bout what the rules of the game were: no promises, no future. Whatever happened over the next few days—if they became lovers, if feelings deepened—this would still never be more than a fling.
They walked in silence for a while. Until Carston released her fingers, curled his arm around her shoulders. Sherry caught her breath, then nestled her head into his shoulder; it felt right, there, as if that were the perfect place for it. His warm scent floated up to her nostrils, wonderful, intoxicating, and dangerous.
He looked down at her, and she saw his desire met her own. Lowering his head, he took her mouth softly, his tongue feathering her lips. She half turned, pressed herself against the hardness of his muscular male body, curled her arms around his neck, then felt the world spin away. A kiss? This was a voyage into another dimension. The kiss turned into another, then another, until her blood sizzled, and her body cried out for more.
The need for air forced them apart, and they clung to each other.
“Powerful stuff,” he murmured into her hair.
She could only nod. Words had vanished. The intensity she felt with this man had dragged her far away from the everyday world and normal conversation.
He pulled back slightly, and his eyes, warm, gleaming, met hers. “It’s lovely being with you, Sherry Valentine.” His voice was low, intense.
She managed to nod dreamily. “Ditto,” she whispered. Lovely being beside him, talking with him, seeing his smile, hearing his ideas. Equally lovely, the thought of making love with him. How she wanted him. She wanted his naked skin under her fingertips, her body stretched out beside his. She wanted this man who was still almost a stranger. But wasn’t that the way things went in flings? The thought chilled her, cut into the good feeling. Involuntarily she took half a step back.
“Is something the matter?” His eyes were concerned.
“Just wondering,” she said. “Wondering about where this is leading. A few hot nights together before the festival ends. Then adios. Nice to have met you.”
“Is there something wrong with two people finding out they want each other? Or enjoying each other in bed, and out of it?”
“No. Nothing.” Or nothing she could talk about so casually. How could she say she already knew she’d miss him when they parted? That she wanted to learn more about him, spend more time with him, talking, doing simple things—things like walking through forests. Or visiting nowhere places like Traverton. Could she say she didn’t want this to be a casual encounter? That he’d already touched her heart in some indefinable way? That she cared for him? And that caring for someone who only wanted a passing fling was painful?
No. She couldn’t say that. If she did, he’d think she was a very clingy sort of person, someone who glued herself to any man, someone impossible to get rid of, and he’d go racing over that mountain, desperate to get away.
“I was also thinking of the repercussions of this…thing…between the two of us,” she said calmly.
“Thing?” His face was unreadable, but she was certain he was still on fling-waveband.
“Yes. Thing. One-night stands or three-day flings at conferences and festivals. It’s not the sort of thing I do. And thanks to the press, absolutely everybody in the whole country will know about it. And that turns this into…” She stopped. Searching for words? Or excuses? Or a way of avoiding pain?
He watched her closely for a few seconds. “All right,” he said slowly. “Forgive me for misjudging the situation.” His fingers traced the line of her cheekbone, and his expression was tender. “It’s your fault, you know. You’re just so damned sexy.” He kissed her once more, very briefly this time. Then curled her fingers into his again. “How about if we discuss the complications over candlelight, a good dinner, and a bottle of wine. Especially since it’s going to rain any minute now.”
Gratefully, Sherry let out her breath. He wouldn’t pressure her. She could trust him. Then she looked up at the sky. Thick clouds had moved in and a sudden violent wind was tossing the treetops. “I didn’t notice how dark the sky’s become. Looks like we’re in for a storm.”
“We certainly are.”
The sky turned a deeper shade of black, but they managed to reach the car before the rain fell. When it did, the countryside around them vanished. Hurled by the wind, strong trees bent like gelatin, and gushing torrents flattened grasses, dragged branches, pine needles and mud along the road.
Carston turned his key in the ignition, started the motor, turned up the heat, and slowly inched down the slippery mountain road. It was rough going; only when they reached the paved surface did steering become less difficult. Still, it was hard to ignore the looming mountain hemming them in on the left, the sheer drop into the valley on the right. Without the protection of the forest, the little car shuddered violently in the wind.
Seemingly unperturbed, Carston drove on steadily. Out of the corner of her eye, Sherry watched his strong hands on the steering wheel, his calm face. He was wonderful-looking; his sharply delineated features, the deep laugh lines, all underlined a strong, determined character. And his male aura? That was so definite it was almost tangible; it filled the tiny space, had every nerve in her body responding—despite the dreary little inner voice telling her, again and again, he was definitely not a man she could count on.
A sudden jerk and the squeal of brakes shot her out of her reverie. The car skidded on the slippery surface of the road, and then stalled. Ahead of them in the dim light she could just make out a dark mass.
“What is it?”
He looked puzzled. “I’m not sure.”
Fighting the buffeting wind, they climbed out of the car, made their way over to the obstacle. A huge tree lay directly across the road. “The storm must have brought that down,” Carston shouted over the wind. “Lucky we weren’t driving through when it did.”
Sherry nodded, held back the curls whipping violently across her face. They certainly had been lucky. Sort of. Because there was no way they could move that tree, and there was no way to drive around it.
They fought their way back to the relative calm of the car’s interior.
“Now what?
Carston peered down the deserted road. “No use waiting for rescue. No one will come up here in a storm like this, especially since the road comes to a dead end. Besides, no one knows we’re up here.” He was still perfectly calm, she noted. He wasn’t seething with fury or anguish, as most people would be when confronted by nature’s vagaries. He was just the sort of man you needed in an emergency.
“You don’t seem worried that we’re miles from civilization—if anyone can apply the word civilization to Traverton. And the weather probably won’t get better soon.”
He looked at her with smiling amusement. “How far would worrying get me? Of course, if I’d planned this out in advance, I’d have arranged for the tree to come down in front of a very romantic hotel with no telephones, but a comfortable room containing a nice big bed. As it is, we can’t spend the night in this car. It’s not even big enough to pull your socks off in.” His smile widened. “And, by the way, you don’t look very worried either.”
“Why should I be? The tree missed us. We’re safe and sound.” If he wasn’t angry or upset or worried, why should she be? Wasn’t this just another shared adventure? One she would tuck away in that corner of her brain reserved for cherished memories.
“We could telephone for help,” he said. “If there’s a signal here.”
“Of course we can. I forgot all about my cell phone.” Telephones seemed ridiculously prosaic in a situation like this. She pulled out her phone. Looked. “Nope. Still no signal. So now what?”
“We passed a farm on the way up. I don’t know how far away it is. I’ll walk down, see if the farmer has a tractor to shift the tree. Or, at worst, a saw or an axe. You wait here, in the car.” He pointed to the keys. “If you get cold, just run the engine.”
“Why do I have to wait in the car?” Sherry asked, ignoring the keys. “I’m no delicate flower. I c
an walk just as well and as far as you can.”
“He-man stuff,” he said, his voice almost gruff. “Protective male instinct. You know the sort of thing I mean. It isn’t raining much now, but it might start again soon. If you stay in the car, you’ll be dry.”
“And bored.”
“I’m only trying to make life easy for you. In that beaded blouse and fringed jacket, those tight jeans and fancy boots, you look like you belong on a stage under bright spotlights, not on a deserted road in a storm.” He raised his hand in warning. “And don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying the outfit doesn’t look good. It does. It’s sexy as hell. Just not road-worthy.”
“Oh come on.” She was scornful. “I grew up in Dog’s Pass. You’re the one who should be worried. You probably spent your whole childhood in some prissy private school.”
He ignored her comment. “There could be more than five or six miles to walk before we get to that farmhouse.”
“So what are we waiting for? Look at the sky.”
Carston shrugged. “Please yourself.”
Sherry reached for the door handle, then stopped. “Did you really go to a prissy school?”
“Of course I did. Where else? I majored in needlework at Yale too.” He looked down at her boots. “You really think you can cover a few miles in those? Aren’t cowboy boots meant for riding on horses?”
“Gosh, they sure do teach you an awful lot in those needlework classes.”
They set out, pushed by the wind. Five or six miles was far, Sherry said to herself. Even two miles was far, but she’d rather find work as a galley slave than admit that to Carston. Maybe he’d over-estimated the distance? She hoped so. These boots of hers were most definitely not made for walking: her left heel was hinting that it no longer wanted to be part of her life. But if she curled up her toes and put her weight on the outer edge of her foot, she’d certainly survive the torture of a rubbing boot.
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