Hearts

by Stef Ann Holm

  I want to kiss him.

  She’d never been inclined to kiss a man. Not once in her life. But right now, she caught herself wanting to kiss Jake in the worst way. Wanting him to kiss her. Everything inside her body ached, longing for more than just this superficial touch. She wanted his mouth over hers, hot and moist, his chest crushing her breasts. She wanted to feel total and fiery passion. She wanted that kiss again where they used their tongues.

  “Shift your weight.” Jake’s voice intruded on her fantasies and she all but shuddered her reaction. He went on, “Small step forward on the left foot. Step on your right foot, bend your knee slightly. Crossover step on your left foot.”

  He might as well have been tutoring her in Latin verse. She couldn’t comprehend a word. As he tried to run through the movements, she fought following through. He moved left; she stayed still. He stopped.

  “What’s the matter? I said to cross over on your left foot.”

  She turned herself around in his arms, barely looked into his eyes, then pressed her open lips over his. Soundly. Without thought. Without justification other than one simple thing: she wanted to.

  Jake’s muscular arms rose and gathered her in tightly. Breath mingled with breath. Lips touched lips. Currents of desire shot through her while her knees weakened.

  She started the kiss, but Jake took it over. He nibbled on her lower lip; she nuzzled her nose next to his, losing herself in the dreamy intimacy. His hand lifted to gently massage the skin on the back of her neck as he kept his mouth on hers.

  The rhythm of the music gave their unpredictable kiss syncopation. As the tune crescendoed, so did the sweep of their tongues. Truvy might not have been able to dance to the music, but she felt compelled to kiss to it. The notes swam inside her head. She danced the dance of kisses.

  Her hands lay on Jake’s shoulders and she lifted her fingers into the soft hair at his collar. So silky. So cool. So . . . wonderful.

  At the base of her throat, her pulse beat. Jake found the spot with his fingertips. Then his fingers drifted lower, between them, grazing downward. She waited, her pulse quickening. The hot ache in her breasts made them feel full and heavy.

  The side of Jake’s thumb brushed her tight nipple. The touch caused a shudder to pass through her. She let out a sigh, her wildly beating heart the only other audible sound. His hand cupped her, the full globe of her breast. He softly massaged, fondled.

  They kissed for an eternity.

  She reveled in the velvet warmth of his mouth over hers, devouring and burning with fire. His hand on her breast singed. She wound her fingers into his hair, fisting the locks. She lightly held the back of his head so he couldn’t break the kiss.

  This was truly and utterly insane.

  But she didn’t care.

  She was twenty-five and she was never going to get married and she was never going to make love to her husband and she was never going to learn the secrets in that book she was reading unless she figured them out for herself.

  She curled into the curve of his body, her hands moving down the length of his back. He was so taut. So hard and muscular. So—

  The music stopped. The room became stone quiet.

  Except for their gasps and pants, the soft sounds of mouth against mouth. Slowly, Truvy grew aware of her surroundings but didn’t do anything to pull away. Please don’t stop kissing me.

  But Jake’s hold on her loosened. The moment was slipping away.

  “Christ, Truvy.” The rumble of Jake’s voice reverberated through her breasts, to her heart. “I was trying damn hard to be a gentleman about these lessons. I didn’t want to grope you like a big toad.”

  “You’re not a big toad.” She kissed his open mouth, then gazed at his face.

  The green of his eyes darkened. “You called me one before.”

  “I apologize. Truly.” She leaned into him. “Now kiss me again.”

  He did. But not the kind of kiss she needed. It was swift and placating. He gripped her shoulders and put her at arm’s length.

  “If I keep kissing you,” he said, the vein at the side of his neck pumping blood furiously as he attempted to keep his breathing normal, “I’m going to want to do more than just kissing. I don’t think you know what you’re getting into. I didn’t offer to give you the dance lessons so you’d have sex with me.”

  His words were blunt, and she hated that he felt he had to say them. “I never thought that.”

  “Yeah, well . . .”—he ran a hand through his hair—“. . . it did cross my mind.” He walked to the window and stared out to the alleyway and the falling snow.

  “As it did mine,” she returned, quietly. “It was me. I kissed you.”

  “Not with any resistance on my part.” The broad width of his shoulders heaved a sigh.

  Truvy remained still. She feared he’d walk out the door, leave, never come back. She’d never see him again, never watch the smile play over his mouth, see the light dance in his eyes, hear the quips he could make with a joking grin or shrug. He might not have thought he was anything special.

  But she thought he was . . .

  Truvy didn’t dare finish the thought. Instead, she composed herself and asked very judiciously, “If I promise not to kiss you, will you still teach me the sugar cane?”

  For what seemed a long while, he didn’t move. Didn’t comment. Didn’t face her. Then with the feathery white snow drifting as a backdrop behind him, he turned around. His steady gaze regarded her, then he presented her with a familiar display of rakishness. “No.”

  “No . . .?” The word practically wedged in her throat, and she flushed. Miserably.

  His grin flashed briefly, dazzling against his bronze skin. “I’ll teach you the dance without your promise.”

  Chapter

  15

  “I’ ll pay for it, Bruiser,” Milton said as he stood over Jake, who knelt beside a jagged hole in the gymnasium’s floor. “I didn’t mean to . . . I’ll cover all the repair damages. Every last penny.”

  The wide hole gaped and Jake looked through it to the ground about a foot beneath the elevation of the building. He could make out an object down below—an iron bar and two round balls on either end. Drafts of cold air blew up in a gust from the dark pit. On the surface, the highly varnished planked wood was splintered and spanned a circumference of a good forty-eight inches.

  Milton Burditt had really done it when he dropped a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound barbell from hip height. The floor hadn’t been able to withstand the sudden, forceful blow and had collapsed.

  Jake gazed up at Milt through the fringe of hair resting in his eyes. He shook the hair back but didn’t temper his glare at Milt.

  Milton’s complexion went white. His double chin seemed to triple. And the sag in his gymnasium drawers appeared like he’d lost a little something out of fear of Jake’s reaction.

  “Now Bruiser, I know what you said—that we shouldn’t try to lift more than we can handle. But I swear to you, I thought I was ready for it. With the Mr. Physique contest two weeks away, I have to be in prime condition if I’m going to walk off with that first-place win.”

  “We all have to be in prime condition,” Walfred grumbled.

  Walfred, Gig, August, and Lou, along with other gym members, crowded in to observe Jake’s reaction.

  Jake had been in his office during the destruction. There had been a loud crash, then the sound of ripping wood and the leaden thud of metal against frozen earth.

  Gig’s brows arched. “I’m not ready for the two-fifty. I’ll do what you tell me to, Bruiser.”

  “Quit trying to get on his good side, Gig,” Milt groused.

  At this moment, Jake didn’t have a good side. But he kept his temper in check, although it was hard not to let that tick at his jaw go a little wild. He reminded himself it was an accident. Hell, he knew about accidents. Shooting Truvy’s dress with ink came to mind.

  “It’s all right, Milt,” Jake said carefully, trying not to ground the w
ords out. “I understand.”

  “Do you, Bruiser?” He all but blanched his relief. “You’re a swell guy.”

  Jake rose from his crouch. In everyday situations, he rarely—if ever—used his full six-foot-five height to an advantage, but he rather liked towering high over Milton Burditt. And worrying him.

  Milt took another step backward. So did the crowd.

  “I’m going to have to close for a few days, gentlemen, while I wait to have this repaired,” Jake said while pushing back the leg frame of the rower. He didn’t need anybody tripping on the equipment and falling into the hole. “My building insurance won’t let me operate with a hazard in the room—I can be held liable if somebody hurts himself.”

  “I . . . sorry, Bruiser.” Milton’s face had fallen as low as his oxford shoe heels. “I’ll buy you a case of beer.”

  “I don’t need your beer, Milt.”

  “Bruiser, you always need beer,” August pointed out.

  “Not when it comes as a pity party.” And not lately. He’d been cutting back on the beer and spending more time working out. The physical vigor had done him good, fed his body and fueled his mind. His mental outlook wasn’t clouded by liquor and poker. And he was feeling good about that. He hated to examine why the change in routine. Because deep down, he knew the answer smelled like lemon verbena.

  “Then let’s not call it pity beer. Let’s call it something else.” Lou didn’t spell out the gist of his suggestion, and Jake didn’t ask.

  “I have to close up.” He was going to have to talk to Alex Cordova, a carpenter who had a shop out on Elm, and see when Alex could come by and install replacement planks of wood. With the hole being the way it was, Alex would have to cut it back to the floor joists and replace an even bigger section than the actual hole. “Everybody collect their gear and head out.”

  “But, Bruiser—” Milton called.

  “It’s okay, Milt. Let it go.”

  Jake walked away, not really interested in what the fellows were going to propose. There was a time, not long ago, when he would have been up for whatever they had in mind.

  He went toward his office, forgoing giving the handle of his Liberty machine a pull. He wasn’t in the mood to measure his strength today. He already knew he could break a guy’s leg without any effort. But he wouldn’t do that to Milton. He kidded around about trouncing them, but that was just gym talk.

  Hell, he wouldn’t do that to anybody.

  The only person who gave him any credit these days was . . .

  Truvy Valentine.

  She thought he was thoughtful.

  He was getting in deep here with feelings for her. Big mistake. But they’d started and he didn’t know how to stop them.

  The day he’d brought her Maynard, he hadn’t been prepared for her to be wearing next to nothing. After he entered her apartment, his entire body had tightened when he saw her in full view. He knew she had a voluptuous figure. He hadn’t realized just how voluptuous tall women could be.

  He’d had to call on all the stamina and control he possessed not to kiss her senseless and lay her down over the bed. He knew going to her house was bucking trouble. The townspeople wouldn’t look the other way if he visited a single woman underneath their noses. He knew it was a crossing-the-line kind of thing. But it hadn’t stopped him.

  Hell, buying her that parakeet meant he was taking their relationship from impersonal to personal. A man didn’t give a woman a companion bird unless he caught himself always anticipating when he could see her. And a man didn’t kiss a woman with his entire mouth and walk away unaffected.

  Sweet Judas—who was he fooling? He did that kind of thing in Waverly and Alder and walking away had never bothered him. Women came and went in his life. He enjoyed them, the feel of their skin, the smell of their hair, the taste of their lips. He took them to bed. That’s all they wanted. That’s all he needed.

  Why the hell, then, hadn’t he visited any of his lady friends since Truvy Valentine had come to town? He’d always been meaning to. But he kept telling himself he couldn’t get away. The business. Mr. Physique. Paperwork. There was always something standing in the way.

  Another lie.

  Jake moved behind his desk and sat down, no longer in the mood to look at the pictures in Sporting Life magazine. He leaned his upper body back in his chair and thought about what was going on in Crime and Punishment. He’d made it to part one, chapter three. The story wasn’t really picking up in the way he’d hoped, but he was forcing himself to read the anvil-weighted book. Luzhin had revealed himself as a selfish ass. And Raskolnikov—whose name Jake couldn’t get beyond pronouncing as Rash-Nickel—thought his crime was discovered.

  For the most part, the plot confused Jake. And frustrated him. Getting through the pages had become a struggle because of his lack of education. He was going to prove to himself he could read the whole thing.

  Even if it put him to sleep.

  The five members of the Barbell Club intruded on Jake’s thoughts as they filed into the office.

  Jake hoisted his feet onto the corner of his desk, boots hitting hard, as he knit his fingers together and rested them on his chest.

  “Me and the boys,” Milt began, “we—”

  Lou finished. “We want to smooth things over—all of us.”

  “Yeah,” August said. “We feel bad, Bruiser. We want to make up for Milton’s putting a hole in your floor.”

  “Don’t remind him, you nitwit,” Milton scoffed.

  Walfred put in, “We want to propose another bet. A sure winner for you, Bruiser. That way you won’t feel like the beer is pity beer.”

  “Exactly.” Lou expanded his chest. “So we propose you can’t make five consecutive smoke rings from one puff of your cigar.”

  Even Reverend Stoll from the church knew Jake could do that.

  Jake gazed at Lou and dryly commented, “That’s not a bet. It’s a sure thing.”

  “Well . . .” Milton began, “. . . that’s the point here. We wanted to give you something we knew you could do so you could win and then get the beer.”

  “I don’t need to bet you boys anything.” Jake inverted the mesh of his fingers and cracked his finger joints, eight at once.

  “But we want to do this, on account of your being behind us in the Mr. Physique contest.” August looked genuinely sincere, his unruly hair combed in place by a rake of his fingers.

  “I told you Bruiser needed a challenge. That’s why my idea about Miss Valentine was a good one,” Gig said.

  The mention of Truvy’s name made Jake swallow hard and put his guard up. Clenching his teeth, he kept the curses from flowing out of his mouth.

  Walfred came back with, “But that bet is too much of a sure loss. He couldn’t get her to go to dinner with him at the restaurant and he’s had plenty of time to change her mind.”

  “Walfred’s right about that, Gig.” Lou shook his head. “Any bets about Bruiser taking Miss Valentine to the Valentine’s Day dance are as good as lost, and then Bruiser can’t get his beer.”

  Milton mumbled, “I hate to agree with you boys, but Bruiser would have more of a chance escorting Walter Zurick’s mule. And with a ribbon around its neck.”

  Gig spoke up. “Now wait a minute—let’s give Bruiser some credit. I think he can do it. So what do you say, Bruiser?”

  Jake’s pulse slowed to near nothing; he felt as if his blood had thickened to the consistency of heavy machine oil. And he swore the taste of it filled his mouth—metallic, bitter. He stared in turn at the faces above him, waiting expectantly, wanting him to take the challenge.

  He should take them on. Laugh some laughs. Joke around. Talk about winning. Offer them all cigars to seal the deal.

  Instead, he wanted to kick their asses out of his office. But he couldn’t send them packing because he’d developed a conscience in the past few weeks. Conscience or not, though, he was still a businessman who had to make a living, to eat and pay his bills.

  But
he didn’t have to take on a bet. And he didn’t have to explain why he wouldn’t.

  “No.” The single word cut like a dull knife.

  “No, Bruiser?” Milton’s expression grew confused.

  “No.”

  The air in the room closed in. Jake did everything he could to keep both his facial expression and body language impartial.

  After a long moment, Milton spoke up. “You think it over, Bruiser. You can change your mind. You don’t have to agree to anything. Just bring her to the dance and we’ll know why.”

  Shifting his weight in the seat of the chair, Jake rubbed a hand over his jaw. “I have to lock up now.”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay, Bruiser.”

  “Right.”

  As soon as they were gone, Jake picked up a set of dumbbells. With iron in each hand, he contracted his biceps and curled both arms as far as possible, then extended them downward under full control. He felt contractions peak in his muscles over and over. He continued until sweat ran from every pore and he couldn’t do another set without his knees buckling from exhaustion.

  Truvy picked up Edwina’s mail from the general delivery grate on the way to Wolcott’s Dance Academy. As she closed the studio door, anxiety drummed in her thoughts. There were two letters—one from Miss Pond, the other from her students. The return address on the latter included the words: Your Economics Class.

  Without delay, she deposited her handbag and schedule book on the oak Victrola cabinet and tore open the envelope of the girls’ correspondence.

  She recognized the penmanship. Myra Jepsen. Of all the students in her class, Myra had the most elegant handwriting. But each girl signed her name individually at the bottom of the stationery.

  January 9, 1902

  To our dear Miss Valentine: