Legendary Lover

by Roszel, Renee

  He thought of that afternoon, of Tess’s amazing abandon in his arms, and felt himself go cold with the thought that he’d never know that elation again. Suddenly he was consumed by a hunger that was so painful that he winced. Nostrils flaring, he muttered, “To hell with her,” and headed off the patio along the winding path in the garden.

  After barely a dozen steps, he found himself thinking about her eyes and the look he’d seen there that had sent him bounding from the parlor moments ago. His anger abated. He wanted to leave her the hell alone. This tenderness he was feeling now—pity, sympathy, whatever it was—he didn’t like it, didn’t want to feel it. She’d as much as told him to go to the devil this afternoon. Why couldn’t he take the message to heart and ignore the need in her eyes?

  Why, too, couldn’t he resist the sweet-sexy pull of her feminine allure? Mary would scoff loud and long if she could read his thoughts right now. But he really didn’t fall into the sack with every willing female who stepped across his path. Besides the fact that he wasn’t the total rounder that Mary made him out to be, indiscriminate sex just wasn’t a good idea in today’s society. But there was something about Tess that made him forget good intentions and solid logic.

  He’d vowed that he wouldn’t put a hand on the lady, because that was very clearly the way she’d wanted it. And it had astonished him when she’d come on to him the way she had. Dammit to hell. He balled his fists. He couldn’t believe he’d stumbled all over himself to get her to bed, so eager to make her cry out with delight, to hear her sighs of satisfaction, her whimpers of pleasure.

  What the hell was his problem lately? He strode down the steps to the dock, angry with himself for doing this. He told himself grimly that whatever wonderful thing had happened between them that afternoon was water under the bridge. Why couldn’t he turn his back and walk away? He took another two steps before he stopped, scanning the starry sky through eyes narrowed in a stony scowl.

  Maybe it was because he’d already turned his back on her, once. Maybe. Anyway, for whatever obscure reason, he was on his way to the cruiser to retrieve his guitar. He couldn’t stand to see Tess being Miss Merry Mistress of Ceremonies if it was so abhorrent to her.

  He hadn’t played his guitar for an audience in quite a while, but he figured he could do as well as Etta and Ella. Even in his foul mood he couldn’t help but grin wryly. Hell! Two fighting cats on a back fence could do as well as Etta and Ella. That is, if they could fight in a polka rhythm.

  A most singular interpretation of “The Age of Aquarius” ended with a galumphy little pirouette by Etta as she pressed her bellows together for the final chord. Moderate applause followed. Tess inhaled shakily, nervous to the point of giddiness. She was about to go into her own portion of the evening’s entertainment, a recitation of poetry. She wasn’t that great at it, but her efforts were always met with appropriate enthusiasm.

  She looked around searching for Quillan Quimby, who she was sure would enjoy this. She couldn’t find his among the sea of faces in the parlor. Deciding he must be on shore watch, she stood and straightened her skirt.

  She had chosen to dress demurely in beige linen, half hoping she’d melt into the beigeness of the drawing room. She wore a double-breasted jacket, a cream-colored blouse with a froth of lace embellishing the front of the stand-up collar, a trumpet skirt and matching pumps. At the last minute, she’d even tucked her long hair into a neat bun at her nape.

  She suspected her choice of clothing reflected a psychological desire to appear wholesome—though she was acutely aware that both she and at least one other person at the inn knew exactly what kind of wayward wanton she truly was.

  She grimaced but hid the expression behind a mild clearing of her throat. The applause was entirely gone by the time she’d walked up to stand beside the glistening grand piano. She smiled sweetly, wishing she were some place less nerve-racking—such as over Niagara Falls on a fraying tightrope—and tried to recall the first line of Thomas Traherne’s “Eden.”

  She was beaming outwardly. Inwardly, she was a tangled wreck. She began, “And now ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to—”

  “No need to introduce me, Miss Mankiller,” came Cord’s deep voice. He strode toward her, looking incredibly sexy in well-worn jeans, faded in all the right places, and a rust-and-navy plaid shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal bronze muscle. His crooked smile was as winning as the night he was pronounced Broken Arrow High’s “Mr. Charisma.” “I think everybody here knows who I am.”

  By the time he’d finished speaking, he was beside her, his tangy after-shave assailing her nostrils and making her stomach lurch with unwanted memories. Tearing her gaze from his face, she realized for the first time that he was carrying a richly polished guitar. She had to work hard to keep her mouth from gaping in surprise. She blinked back up to stare at him, her face a frozen question.

  He grinned down at her, but his smile cooled before it reached his eyes. It was evident that he was irritated with her, but she was sure she was the only person in the room who could see it.

  “I thought it was about time for a down-home sing-along,” he explained, taking her elbow and forcing her with a gentle but determined pressure into a sitting position on the piano bench. Propping a silver-tipped boot on the bench, he turned toward the gathered guests and said, “I take requests.” He grinned irrepressibly, and Tess hated the way the flash of teeth affected her.

  He kidded, “Just don’t ask me to sit down.”

  There was a ripple of laughter before Fred Summerfield asked, “Do you know Hank Williams’s ‘Hey, Good Lookin’’?”

  Cord winked. “Was practically weaned on it.”

  He strummed a few cords on the guitar before he began to sing the tune. His full-bodied voice held none of the familiar Hank Williams twang, and Tess felt the melody flow through her like warm syrup. She found herself relaxing as she watched his rugged profile, the tiny smile lines at the corner of his eyes, the sun-streaked waves of hair mussed by the evening wind. She especially enjoyed her close-up view of the cording and bunching of the muscles in his forearms as he strummed, his playing as mellow and provocative as his voice.

  It didn’t take long for the delighted gathering to join in, and some enthusiastic guests even began clapping to the beat. Tess would have preferred that they refrain, for they drowned out the subtleties of Cord’s performance. She glanced around the room. The thirty-odd guests seemed completely enthralled. Even Etta and Ella had rapture written on their flushed pixie faces. Tess had to admit reluctantly that Cord was the picture of the Western hero—except he wasn’t wearing a ten-gallon hat, but she decided it would be a sin to cover up that mass of silky hair.

  Her fingers tingled as she recalled the feel of those golden strands against her hands, her breasts, her stomach. She clenched her fists in her lap, trying to choke the thought from her mind. She zeroed in on the singing, vowing to concentrate on the words of the new song that had just been requested.

  Twenty minutes later, she was laughing with the rest of the audience as Cord related some of the more comical—if painful—experiences of his youth on a cattle ranch. Finally, with one last request from, of all people, Etta Inch, who was apparently a woman of eclectic musical taste, Cord began to sing a plaintive ballad.

  Tess was very impressed not only by the range of Cord’s voice but also by the sultry nuances he added to the words as he sang about a broken heart from a man’s viewpoint, and how even a strong man can be devastated by a lost love.

  In an instrumental segment, Cord hummed a sad, haunting accompaniment, making Tess shiver with tender emotion. She had to shake herself to regain proportion. Cord was merely singing a request, not pouring out his own feelings about being rejected. Lord in heaven, Cord Redigo, of all people, had no earthly idea of what being rejected was like!

  Still, even as she tried to be stern and no-nonsense about the man, she couldn’t help but soften a little. Once again, he was gouging at her emotional weak spot. Thi
s time he was doing much, much more for her than merely fixing her a dinner, he was taking responsibilities from her shoulders and transferring them to his own broad ones—and very successfully, too.

  As he clung to the final, sweet note, Tess found herself holding her breath along with the rest of the audience. He sang like an angel—or a devil bent on beguiling. Whichever, she cautioned herself never to be alone with this man and his guitar. A little voice whispered that he’d had no guitar this afternoon, so she amended her resolve. She’d better not be alone with him ever, period.

  When the applause began, his crooked smile blossomed slowly. To Tess’s dismay, her cheeks warmed at the sight of it. She found herself on her feet, applauding loudly with the rest of the appreciative audience. Cord didn’t turn her way at all, and she felt a rush of regret about that. She didn’t blame him for ignoring her. Maybe—just maybe—he had felt slightly rejected today. His ego might have been bruised a bit—certainly not much, she was sure.

  The audience had gathered round to congratulate him. Tess crossed her arms and watched him as he talked casually to his admirers. He was certainly a charmer, that man. There was probably a support group somewhere she ought to join for women who’d been snared by that fatal allure, only to discover that he hadn’t meant anything by it. He just oozed it, like a maple tree oozes sap. She wondered where the national headquarters for Cord Redigo Anonymous was, then decided she was probably it.

  A melancholy smile lifted her lips. She had an urge to hug Cord and strangle him at the same time. He’d been her first and only fantasy prince, and he’d also been her worst nightmare; but tonight he’d been a great help, and at this moment she felt no harsh emotion for him, only gratitude.

  She cast one last look at him, the message “Thank you” in her eyes and her smile. But he didn’t see it; his broad back was to her, no doubt on purpose. He was certainly not needing her with a vengeance tonight! She shook her head and walked toward the door. It was after ten and as good a time as any to call it quits for the night. She decided she’d have to make a point of telling Cord how good he had been at the very next opportunity, and how grateful she was. But right now, she didn’t think he cared to hear a word from her.

  Suddenly she spotted Nolan working his way through the crowd toward her and knew she’d have to shake him before she could escape to her room.

  He caught her at the door, walking with her to the deserted kitchen where she poured them both a last cup of coffee.

  “He was good, wasn’t he,” Nolan remarked after a quick sip.

  Her gaze flew to him across the rim of her mug. She went ahead and took a scalding gulp before answering. “Uh-huh. I guess.”

  Nolan chucked her under the chin and grinned down at her. “I missed hearing your poetry, though. The way you act out George Herbert’s ‘The Temper’…I mean, when you swoop down for the line, ‘Sometimes to Hell I fall’, why it’s just…” He frowned, searching for the word. “Oh, I don’t know it’s just…”

  “A crime?” she helped.

  He laughed. “Of course not. Really, you remind me of Shirley Temple with your cute gestures.”

  She had an urge to role her eyes in agony. “Don’t let Shirley hear you say that. She might sue.”

  Nolan laughed again. It was a sound that was beginning to wear on her nerves. She tried to be fair. It wasn’t Nolan’s fault her nerves were raw. She smiled at him as best she could. “Well, Nolan, if you don’t mind, I’m awfully tired. I think I’ll go—”

  “Sure, sure,” he interrupted, taking her mug from her hand and setting it beside his on the counter. “First, I want to say something.”

  He moved up closer, and Tess swallowed, an inner voice warning her that this was going to be awkward.

  “Tess,” he began softly, his hands going about her waist, “You know how I feel about you. I’ve told you often enough.”

  She stared up at him. Unable to speak, she nodded feebly.

  “I love you, Tess.” He kissed her upturned nose, and then pulled her against his chest as he murmured heatedly, “Marry me. I need you in my life.”

  She bit her lip, staring into the wine-colored hounds-tooth pattern of his sweater vest. He needed her. But could she stand being needed the way he needed her, even for the security he was offering?

  “Darling?” he whispered after a long moment. “I hope no news is good news.”

  She lifted arms weighed down by regret and pressed him gently away. Smiling tremulously up at his expectant face, she hedged, “Nolan, you’ve taken me quite off guard….”

  He touched her hot cheek with fingers that felt like ice. “After three proposals in two years, I would think you’d be getting pretty blasé about the question.”

  She felt a stab of pity, and stood on tiptoe to kiss his jaw. “Never blasé, Nolan.” She stepped away. “But you know how the inn is—financially, I mean….”

  He smiled down at her, but the smile was only mildly successful. “That’s why I’m still here on a Sunday night. I’m surprised you didn’t ask me why I hadn’t gone back to Burlington. You’ve seemed a little distracted lately.”

  She started. It was Sunday night? She’d forgotten to notice the days slipping by since Cord Redigo had sashayed back into her life. “Oh, I’m—I guess I’ve been preoccupied … with business. Uh, why are you still here?”

  “The books. Remember, it’s that time again, love.”

  He was right, she realized. And she also realized that she’d half-promised him that he’d have her final answer after he’d gone over the books this month. She’d told him that in a rash moment after putting him off yet again, several months ago. Now she would have no further options; Nolan had been more than patient. She smiled weakly. “Of course it is, Nolan. The books. Naturally, I remember.”

  “I thought you might be able to tell me you’d marry me before I had to prove to you that the inn is running in the black.”

  She blanched at the note of hurt she detected in his tone. Feeling terrible, she took his hand. “It’s just a couple of days, Nolan.” She manufactured a smile. “What’s a little proof between close, close friends.”

  He seemed heartened by the idea that he’d have his answer in a few days. Sighing audibly, he squeezed her hand with both of his. “You know you can twist me around your pretty finger, don’t you? I suppose I can wait.”

  She lowered her eyes, too cowardly to meet his devoted gaze.

  He kissed her cheek before whispering, “A couple of days, sweetheart.”

  His footsteps grew distant, and she heard the kitchen door swing open at his touch. Unmoving, she listened to the metallic squeak of the hinges as the door swung back and forth in smaller and smaller arcs until it had stilled.

  She crushed her hands together, feeling a little sick. Why couldn’t she tell Nolan yes? He’d waited a long time for her. It wasn’t fair to keep putting him off just because she felt nothing earthshaking for him. Their love could grow, couldn’t it?

  She lifted her gaze from her clenched hands to peer at the counter where Nolan’s mug nudged hers. She suddenly had to move, to do something, anything. Snatching up the mugs, she walked to the sink and set them down, turning on the hot water spigot.

  Cord was just a man like any other, she told herself. What she felt for him was merely an inconvenience, an odd chemical thing of no real importance, a perverse, buzzing little demon that needed to be brushed away like a bothersome fly.

  He wasn’t speaking to her, and that was just fine. She’d obviously succeeded in swatting him away this afternoon. She was lucky to be out from under.

  She winced at the vision her unfortunate word choice conjured up. With a distracted flourish, she squirted some dish soap into the water. In two days, she’d accept Nolan’s proposal, and all would be right with the world. Cord would go his way, and she and Nolan would go theirs. She grabbed a sponge and began to scrub a mug as though it was encrusted with rust. The idea of Cord exiting her life was very appealing, very satis
fying, exactly what she wanted.

  She gritted her teeth, leaning into her work. The mug suddenly broke in her hand, startling and confusing her. Where was product quality these days? Where had pride in one’s work gone? Why, she sniffed, was she reduced to tears over a few ounces of ruined crockery?

  8

  Tess dabbed at her eyes and then wiped her hands on the kitchen towel, glad, at last, to be free to go up to bed. When Mary Cash appeared inside the kitchen door, her heart sank. Relatives of Cord Redigo were high on her list of people she didn’t want to run into. She tried to put on a businesslike smile. “Why hello, Mary.” She draped the towel over its bar, before asking, “What can I do for you?”

  Mary smiled weakly and walked forward. “Nothing, hon. I hope I’m the one who can do something for you.”

  Tess was too tired for riddles. “I’m afraid I don’t—”

  Mary interrupted with a curt laugh. “I know that. And I’m glad to hear you don’t. Cord already told me how you fought him off this afternoon.”

  Tess’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth to ask exactly what Mary meant, but before she could speak, Mary went on, “I know I’m an awful busybody and should keep my mouth shut, but I like you, Tess, and I have a feeling you’re just a little attracted to my libidinous cousin.”

  “Why, I—” Startled by Mary’s directness, Tess couldn’t form a coherent thought, let alone voice the denial that she wanted to scream out.

  Mary shook her head, sighing loudly. “Old Cord’s dashing and charming and all that muck.” She walked closer, closing the gap between them. “And because he is, I feel it’s my duty to ward off problems before they happen, if I can. Don’t let him talk you into anything—or out of anything, if you understand my subtleties.” She paused, smiled to herself and added, “Course, I’ve never been accused of being overly subtle.”