It was possible, of course, that she was making too much of the situation, Cammie told herself. What had she done, after all, except invite a man into her house, then ask for his protective presence for the night? Surely there was nothing so unusual in that.
Except that it wasn't just any man. It was Reid Sayers.
So she was attracted to him, so what? She wasn't some teenager with more hormones than self-control. That Reid was in the house, if he decided to stay, would make no difference in how well she slept.
And even if it did, the problem would not be insurmountable. She would stay in her bed, and he would stay in his. The male body held few mysteries for her, and no great enchantment. How much difference could there be between two men?
How much indeed? Exactly?
She would not think of it. Whatever happened, would happen.
They cleared away the dishes, leaving them in the dishwasher for the housekeeper to deal with in the morning. Afterward, Cammie left Reid drinking coffee in what had been the front parlor, now known as the living room, while she excused herself for a few minutes.
Upstairs, she quickly put fresh sheets on the bed in the blue bedroom that was usually used for guests, and checked the towels and the soap situation in the connecting bath. There was no guarantee that Reid would use any of it, but she had found that Keith would sometimes accept a fait accompli if it was sprung on him.
She paused as she was taking a new toothbrush still in the package from the closet. She thought she had heard a door close, the back door. The sound was quiet, but she was used to every creak and click in the old house.
Had Reid left? She could not imagine that he would without a word of good-bye. Then again, he was still a stranger to her, in spite of everything.
Cammie found Reid in the sun room, a cozy place with tall windows and a southern exposure. Furnished with wicker cushioned in a pink-and-gray-striped material, with a huge cut-leaf philodendron in a tall terracotta pot and African violets on the windowsills, it was her favorite room. She spent most of her free time there, reading, stitching, crocheting, or working on her watercolor paintings of flowers.
He was standing in front of the gray-veined, marble fireplace that centered one wall. With his hands jammed into the back pockets of his jeans, he was staring up at the portrait of her that was centered above the mantel.
Cammie paused in the doorway, watching the look of absorbed contemplation on his face, before she came forward. Her tone neutral, she said, “It was done from a photograph; Keith commissioned it for our fifth anniversary. A bit too lady-of-the-manor, don't you think?”
“Maybe,” he said, his face relaxing in a smile as he turned, “but it still suits you.”
She refused to acknowledge the pleasure his comment gave her. She said instead, “Your room is ready when you are.”
He didn't move, though his face hardened to the same texture as the polished marble behind him. In the soft tones of a man issuing a warning, he said, “I haven't agreed to stay.”
“I know.” She added baldly, “Will you?”
Appreciation for her frankness, and something more, glinted in the blue of his eyes. It was possible that the saving grace, if there was to be one, would be his sense of humor.
He turned back to the mantel, taking something from the shelf above it. When he faced her again, her magnum pistol was in his hand. “I meant to give this to you earlier, but it — slipped my mind.”
She accepted it, weighing it in her hand as she looked up at him. His shirt was splattered at the shoulders with damp spots of rain, and droplets sparkled on the gold-brown hair of his forearms below the rolled sleeves. The handgun must have been the reason he had left the house just now, she thought; he'd gotten it from the Jeep.
She said, “You had it all along.”
He acknowledged it with a brief nod. “I saw it when you dropped it in the woods. It seemed you might have a use for it.”
“I might at that,” she said.
There was a pause. Then in trenchant tones, he said, “About tonight… discouraging Keith is one thing, but what about the effect on your divorce? What if he decides to use you having a man here against you in court?”
“He wouldn't dare,” she answered. “His own adultery has been so public that documenting it would be ridiculously easy. Besides, I asked for nothing from him, so there's nothing to contest, nothing for him to gain. The community property we've accumulated is so mortgaged, the only thing left to divide is the debts.”
“Even this house?” he asked with a quick frown.
Cammie shook her head. “Evergreen is heir property and mine alone. Actually, Keith wanted to put it up for cash. He even went so far as to arrange it behind my back, but I refused to sign the papers.”
Reid said tightly, “I heard about your father and mother. It's a little late, but I'm sorry.”
Her father had been killed in a head-on collision with a log truck less than a year after her marriage. Her mother, who had been fighting breast cancer at the time, had simply stopped struggling and let it take her. Cammie accepted his sympathy with a slight inclination of her head before she went on. “Anyway, the communal property consists of our two cars and the silver and china we were given as wedding gifts.”
“I know his interest in the mill is tied up, so he can't draw on it directly, but he makes a good salary. Is he that bad at managing his money?”
Reid's manner was intent, the question personal. It was possible, however, that he had a right to ask. Any assistant manager who could not handle his personal business could hardly be considered a good choice to control the finances of a company like Sayers-Hutton Bag and Paper Company. Still, going into detail about Keith's spending habits felt wrong to her.
She said after a brief hesitation, “Let's just say Keith enjoys the good life.”
A smile indented the corner of Reid's mouth. “I had almost forgotten that such discretion existed. I suppose your mother taught you it's impolite to talk about money problems.”
“Something like that.”
“You must have been the perfect wife. Keith's an idiot.”
She turned sharply away from Reid, moving to where a half-completed watercolor of a wild purple flag, or iris, sat on an easel. Putting the handgun down on a nearby table, she reached out to touch the silky paper, feeling for dryness.
Over her shoulder she said, “I tried to be perfect. I took gourmet cooking lessons and studied books on home decorating and table presentation in order to be a good hostess. I joined all the right clubs and groups to improve our social life. I exercised and ate right to stay in shape; I spent hours on my complexion, my hair and my nails. I read to broaden my mind, and drove out of town to buy sex manuals to find out what was wrong with our love life. I studied all the magazine articles that said I was supposed to be endlessly understanding, never talk about my problems or pains, but encourage my man to tell me his. And do you know what happened?”
“I can guess,” Reid said. “Keith didn't appreciate it.”
She turned to face him, her eyes dark. “He took it for granted. He thought I was supposed to do all these things. In his mind, he deserved perfection.”
“And now he thinks you have no right to deny him his perfect world since he's decided he wants it back.”
“It's more a matter of pride than anything else. He thinks if he calls and begs and pleads and follows me around, making my life miserable, that I'll believe he loves me and give in. He's wrong. But the six-month waiting period before the petition for divorce goes into force will be up soon. If the usual conditions exist, no reconciliation, no cohabitation, then the decree can be handed down immediately.”
“You think he's getting desperate, then?”
She was grateful to Reid for putting it into words for her. She said, “I'd like to convince him it's no use, that I can never go back to him.”
“Which is where I come in.”
“If you don't mind.”
As she met
his gaze, she recalled some of the things she'd said to him, just now and earlier. It struck her that she had never even thought of saying such things to Keith. In all their six years of marriage, her husband never guessed that she had read a sex manual, never dreamed that was where she'd found some of the subtle suggestions she had put to him. Not that it had done any good.
Reid Sayers was different. She had the feeling that she could say anything to him, that he would never be shocked or contemptuous, or even surprised. There was a bedrock of tolerance within him, perhaps beyond that of most men; the things that had happened to him, that he had seen and done, had ensured it. He would not presume to judge a man, or a woman, but would accept them as they were with all their flaws. He had lost his belief in perfection.
“Do you have a job?” he asked in serious tones.
She smiled a little as she saw that his mind ran to practical matters, unlike her own. “You're asking how I'll live? I have a small inheritance, plus a half interest in an antique shop. Neither allows for wild extravagance, but I'll get by. Also, I have a degree in French, and I've worked on a number of CODOFIL projects — the Council for Development of French in Louisiana — at the state level. As it happens, I'll be leaving tomorrow for a weekend CODOFIL conference in New Orleans. I could probably get a job teaching French through that connection, if need be. And if all else fails, I suppose I can turn Evergreen into a bed and breakfast place.”
A corner of his mouth tugged in amusement. “Somehow, I can't see you welcoming tourists and getting up at six in the morning to set out croissants and coffee.”
“I'll manage. I'm not one of those helpless females who has never paid a bill or bought an insurance policy. As a matter of fact, I always took care of those things.”
“Perfect, like I said. So the only thing you need right now to ensure a decent future is a man in your — spare — bed.”
His voice was even and not at all encouraging, still she felt a sensation inside very like elation. Her face warm, but her expression as serious as his, she said, “Yes.”
He watched her for long moments. Turning from her slightly, he took his hands from his pockets. He raised one arm to rest a wrist on the mantel, his fingers curling slowly into a fist. His chest swelled with the depth of the breath he took, and she heard its rush as he released it. Finally he said, “If — and I do mean if — I should happen to agree, there will be ground rules. Do you think you can abide by them?”
She didn't care for the sound of that. Tilting her head, she said, “Such as?”
“They're simple, really, but important. Don't ever walk up behind me. Don't move too fast in my vicinity unless I'm watching you. And don't, for the love of God, approach me in the dark without fair warning. Forget even one of these, and we may both be sorry. But by then it could be too late.”
She stood listening to the echoes of warning and desolation in his voice, and she wanted to cry. For any man to be so terrified of human contact — not for himself, but for others — that he would cut himself off from it with such ruthless determination, was tragic. The urge to help him was inescapable.
“How is it,” she said quietly, “that you can go among people and think about working with them at the mill, if you can't trust yourself any more than that?”
“I'm not sure I can. I expect to take it nice and easy, and to keep my back to the wall.”
“You tackled me out there in the woods without hurting me. I don't remember it being a problem for you.”
His jaw flexed so that the muscles stood out in relief. “That was what you might call a planned attack. I knew exactly what I was doing. I was in control.”
She certainly could not deny that. She tried again. “What about out on the porch. I approached you in the dark, or very near it, and you didn't harm me.”
“I was facing you at the time, I saw you coming. There was no element of surprise.”
“I think there was a little,” she said in dry tones. She hesitated, then went on. “Anyway, just for my own protection, I'd like to clarify a point. As long as you realize what's coming at you, there should be no problem. Do I have that right?”
“Generally speaking, yes. There is no — reaction, usually, if there is no surprise, no apparent threat.”
“There are many different kinds of threats.” The words were spoken in low tones, almost to herself.
“I meant in physical terms,” he said in caustic explanation.
Her eyes were wide as she met his dark blue gaze. “So did I.”
A visible tremor ran over him, leaving a prickle of gooseflesh along the surface of his arms. He looked away from her. His voice rough, he said, “Well, then. Where is this bed?”
Cammie lay awake sometime later, staring into the dark and watching the constant flicker of lightning around the edges of the curtains at her bedroom window. The wind was rising, whining around the eaves of the old house. It appeared to be blowing up a spring storm to go with the rain.
She wondered if Reid was asleep, two doors down the hall. Or was he lying there in the old four-poster bed wide-awake, wondering why he had let her talk him into staying?
There had been no men's pajamas in the house. Her father's things had been donated to a charity drive long ago, and she had packed Keith's belongings and had them delivered to his girlfriend's trailer. Not that Keith's clothes would have fit Reid. Her husband had put on weight around the middle over the years, and was at least two inches shorter.
She found herself wondering if Reid was sleeping in his briefs or if he preferred the nude. He didn't seem like the kind of man who would accept confinement of any kind.
Cammie shifted in the bed, sliding one arm above her head as she rolled to her side. Her own nightwear, a gown of peach silk, felt heavy and binding against her skin. She thought of discarding it, but that seemed too much like discarding a restraint.
Restraint from what? That was the question.
But no, that was dishonest. She knew perfectly well the confusion of desires that tempted her. Her problem for most of her life had been that she understood herself too well. Ignorance of her inclinations and impulses had never been an acceptable excuse.
Was it some peculiar need for self-immolation that drove her to consider rising from her bed and making her way down the hall in the lightning's flare? Was it sheer female contrariness, a craving for something that had been deliberately placed beyond her grasp? Or was it the ancient feminine need to offer compassion?
Was it the simple lust of a woman who had been without a man for months? Or was it an urge toward mutual healing?
Was it, perhaps, a need to extend recompense for past injuries?
It could be any or all of these things. It felt, however, like a homing instinct.
Reid Sayers was nothing to her. How could he be? She hardly knew him, and the little she had learned of his activities over the last decade and a half was not encouraging.
He was not someone she would have seen much of if he had remained in town; the family differences meant they would seldom have met in a social way. Even if they had seen each other from time to time, the incident at the lake might well have kept them apart.
If these things were not enough, there was his background and obvious inclinations. He might own the mill, but his education had probably been neglected while he was in the army. His clothes seemed to consist of jeans and camouflage. He lived in the game reserve and drove a Jeep. All that added together made him the King of the Red-Necks. He was, in fact, everything that she most despised in a man.
Why, then, did her body respond to him as it had to no other?
She kicked at the sheet that covered her as she flung herself over on her back. This was a passing moment of insanity. She would get over it.
The last thing she needed was another complication in her life. In any case, a woman didn't throw herself at a man.
She wanted him with a deep internal ache that had nothing to do with physical need. It was as if something of her esse
ntial self reached out to him.
He would think she was crazy, or possibly depraved. Maybe she was. Why else would she even think of risking the pain and danger he might bring her?
She sat up and slid out of bed, walking to the window, where she pulled the curtain aside and looked out. The trees in the garden were silver-green in the lightning flashes, the undersides of their leaves showing pale gray as their branches tossed in the wind. Thunder rumbled a warning, then detonated with a solid boom.
Grasping the window sash, she pushed it up. The sound of the rain and wind blew into the room on a gust of fresh, moist air. The rich, wet smell of it was like inhaling an aphrodisiac. The thunder was louder, the lightning's glow more intense. As she leaned on the sill, a silver trident streaked down the sky above the treetops. Hard on its singeing crackle came a shattering explosion of thunder that shook the floor under her.
And yet, the greater storm was inside her, a violent conflict between values and instinct.
There had been a great deal of thought and discussion about the last this evening. Why should she be concerned about following its lead now?
She straightened from the window and, leaving it open to the rain, moved across her bedroom and out into the hall. She hesitated, closing her eyes tight, then opened them wide and turned toward the bedroom at the end of the long corridor.
As she took one deliberate step after the other, it seemed that she was somehow outside herself, watching what she was doing in mingled approbation and disbelief. It was eerie, as if she had little to do with the legs that moved forward or the feet that trod the soft, Oriental runner stretching down the hall. She felt compelled, or perhaps drawn by some force outside herself.
Was it true, or only an excuse? Either way, she couldn't seem to stop herself. She wasn't sure she wanted to try.
She was not quite without self-preservation, however. Reaching out toward the blue bedroom door, she grasped the knob with delicate precision. She turned it slowly to prevent the quiet metallic noise it might make. As she pushed on the door panel so that it swung inward, she called the name of the man inside in soft warning, trying not to startle him if he was asleep.
Shameless (The Contemporary Collection) Page 5