Promises to Keep

by Susan Crandall

  “Your cider, as promised,” he said with a smile that warmed her as much as any fire.

  She took it, trying not to notice her fingers brushing his as she did. Breathing in the steam rising from the mug, she moaned. “Heavenly.” Then she looked at him and said, “Let me see if I can guess the secret ingredient.”

  Dean leaned back on his elbows, the damp shirt clinging to his chest. “Sure. Go ahead. But if you do, you’ll have to marry me and become an official Coletta. Can’t let the secret out of the family.”

  “There you go, flirting again.” She tried not to look at the definition of his chest muscles.

  “I don’t flirt.”

  She raised a brow and gave him a disbelieving look.

  He sat up. “I don’t.”

  “Whatever.” She closed her eyes and drew in the vapor again. “Cider . . . orange . . . cinnamon . . . .” Opening her eyes, she started to look into the cup.

  Quickly, he put his hand over the top. His fingers were practically against her lips. “No fair. Nose and taste buds only.”

  She gave him a suspicious look. “I think you’re making the rules up as we go.”

  He lifted a shoulder, leaving his hand lingering on the cup and near her mouth. She had the totally improper impulse to kiss his fingers. She resisted—barely. He did have incredibly nice hands.

  “They’re my rules,” he said cockily. “I can make them whenever I please.”

  “Humph.” She looked down her nose at his fingers. “Well, I can’t use either with your hand over the cup.”

  He held her gaze for a moment before he moved it away.

  Closing her eyes again, she took a tiny sip and let it rest on her tongue. Then she drew air in through her nose and her mouth at the same time. She swallowed. “Cloves.”

  “So far you’ve guessed all of the standard ingredients.”

  “Hey, I’m working my way along here. Have I been wrong yet?” she asked smartly.

  “You’re not looking in that cup, are you?”

  “I’m no cheater. Once I know the rules, I play by them. Besides it’s so dark in here, I couldn’t see anything floating around in there if I tried.”

  He scooted nearer and looked into her cup. He was so close, Molly could feel the warmth from his skin, the moisture evaporating from his damp clothes in the heat of the fire. She stared at the top of his head for a long moment, tempted to reach out and curl her fingers into his hair. It was a fascinating mixture of colors, deep brown underneath, sun-lightened to a hundred shades between brown and blond. And it curled slightly and fell so temptingly over his forehead since they’d been out in the rain.

  Then he raised his gaze to meet hers and she flinched guiltily.

  “Just checking to make sure you really can’t see anything in there,” he said softly.

  “I think you have trust issues, Mr. Coletta.” The words came out much more slowly than she’d planned. Now it sounded like she was flirting . . . and maybe she was.

  He raised a hand and rested it on the side of her face.

  Her heart responded with a double beat. The skin beneath his fingers tingled as if a spontaneous current passed between them. She felt like an eighth grader again.

  He held her gaze and said, “I saw you do an incredible thing on that road tonight. I’m convinced I can trust you.”

  With slowness that heightened Molly’s anticipation, he kissed her. It was sweet and tender and filled with respect.

  When he pulled away, Molly said, “But he died.” She’d known the outcome was doubtful when she’d begun to attend the man, but it still felt like failure to lose him. She hated failure more than anything—and to receive praise for it was unthinkable.

  “That wasn’t your fault. It was the fault of the guy who ran him over—I don’t trust him.”

  She smiled and looked into the fire, her heart suddenly aching with the stark reminder of her inadequacies.

  “What’s wrong?” Dean asked softly.

  She shook her head and kept her gaze fixed on the fire.

  Then he touched her, sliding his hand under her hair on her neck. “Tell me.”

  Tears blurred the flickering flames. “I did a horrible thing—I got out of that car and ran to help a stranger without a thought to my son in the back seat.”

  “You acted on instinct.”

  “That’s what frightens me. My first instinct should have been for his safety. I acted as a doctor—not a mother.”

  “You knew I was with him.”

  She turned her glistening gaze on him. “Did I? Did I think at all? What if I’d been alone?”

  He leaned closer, so close his breath was warm on her cheek when he said, “You did the right thing in the circumstance—which was a man dying on the road and me inside the car with your baby. If that man had lived . . . would you be feeling this way?”

  How could he see so clearly into her heart? “I don’t know.”

  His hand moved her hair behind her shoulder, then his thumb traced the line of her jaw. The hunger he sparked in her threatened to come forth without her permission. His gentle touch felt undeniably good—dangerously so. She wanted to sink into these feelings, to let them obliterate her doubts and fears.

  No. She needed to keep her wits—and his nearness threatened to snatch them away. Still, she drew strength from his presence and couldn’t force herself to put more distance between them. The most she could make herself do was return her gaze to the fire and take a distracting sip of cider. Then she tried to concentrate on the mesmerizing movement of the flames.

  She could feel his gaze still on her. But she was afraid to look at him again. Afraid she would fall completely into his strength and absorb it as her own. And she could ill afford to depend on anyone, let alone a man who was leaving town in a few days. Even if he did make the most incredible mulled cider she’d ever tasted.

  Then it struck her. “Raspberries!” In her excitement, she sat up straighter and faced him. “Your secret ingredient is raspberries.”

  Oh, but he was close—close enough to kiss again. She slid backward, putting more space between them.

  “Ah.” He raised his index finger. “But what kind of raspberries? Red? Black?” he asked seriously.

  She narrowed her eyes and tilted her head, trying to regain a playful attitude and dissipate some of the desire that lingered in the air. “As I’m not ready to become Mrs. Coletta, I think I’ll leave that question unanswered.”

  “I’m not sure you haven’t given up your freedom already. No one’s ever guessed raspberries before.”

  “Even with the berries floating around in there?” she asked disbelievingly. “Why, you probably have five wives already.”

  He remained looking serious despite her teasing and shook his head. “I always strain them out. No telltale signs to give it away. And you’ve guessed the family secret.” He inched closer, making a mockery of her effort to reduce the sexual tension. “So you see . . . you’re entirely at my mercy.”

  That’s just the way she felt at the moment, as he held her motionless with a penetrating stare, his eyes a dark blue in the firelight. He was sucking away her self-control; she could feel it draining so rapidly there was probably a raging vortex somewhere around her ankles. Suddenly she understood, for the first time in her life, how a woman could fall victim to a man’s will.

  He took the mug from her and set it on the hearth. As he slid his hand behind her neck to pull her closer for another kiss, Molly thought vaguely that she shouldn’t be doing this. As his lips touched hers she must have mumbled something to that effect.

  Pausing, but remaining a breath away, he said, “Why?”

  “Never mind.” And she gave into her urge to touch his hair, running her fingers through it as she kissed him. She had never wanted to touch a man as badly as she wanted to have her hands on Dean Coletta. Which proved his gaze must have hypnotic powers. Probably something he learned in the Middle East.

  He stopped kissing her, but held
her face close to his. “Will you stop thinking?”

  Her brows furrowed. “How do you know I’m—”

  He nipped her lower lip. “I know. Just let yourself go for a single moment. No thought, just feelings.” When he kissed her again, she rode the sensation alone and was astounded at her internal response. Not only was her reaction changed, but his kiss was entirely different too; sweetness succumbed to hunger, desire overrode tenderness, and passion replaced respect.

  She wanted more than his mouth. Secret places in her body ached to be touched.

  She was breathless when he stopped.

  “Wow,” she whispered.

  “Yeah. I knew it was in there somewhere.” He blew out a breath. “We’re a dangerous mix, you and me.”

  Before she could ask him exactly what he meant by that, he held her close and lay back on the floor. She curled on her side next to him, resting her head on the crook of his shoulder. He held her tightly and kissed the top of her head. She was very thankful he didn’t attempt to take them further. In her current state, she wasn’t making very good decisions.

  She watched the fire and tried to figure out what it was about this man that reached so deeply inside her.

  He said softly as he stroked her hair, “You’re thinking again.”

  “Thank goodness.”

  “I promise not to take advantage of you while your brain is disengaged.” He rolled her onto her back and looked into her eyes. “So you can enjoy this.”

  When his mouth covered hers this time, her brain took immediate leave. She wrapped her arms around him when he trailed kisses down her neck. He nudged away the neckline of her sweatshirt, running his tongue along her collarbone. Just when her body took the driver’s seat, cutting off all communication with conscious thought, he returned to her lips for a lingering kiss.

  Whispering in her ear, he said, “If I’m going to be a man of my word, we’d better knock it off.” Rolling onto his back, he took her with him.

  Her mind thanked him while her body screamed in protest. She rested her hand on his chest and her chin on her hand. Looking at the scar on his neck, she said, “Does that give you much discomfort?”

  “Not really. It was a fairly clean shot, so they tell me.”

  She ran her finger lightly along the scar.

  He added, “Not that it wasn’t dangerous—I did almost bleed to death.”

  “Oh, I’m very glad you didn’t.”

  He laughed. She liked the way it sounded this close to his chest—very masculine.

  Then he said, “Me too,” as he stroked her hair.

  Turning her head to face the fire, she laid her cheek on his chest. The steady thump of his heart echoed in her ear. It made her a little miffed that his was beating so regularly while her own was doing advanced aerobics.

  After a second she noticed an odor. Then she buried her nose in his shirt. “You smell like pee.”

  “Don’t suppose anyone ever accused you of being a romantic?”

  “Never.” She relaxed against his chest once again. “Romance is for dreamers. I live firmly in the real world.” Although this little break from reality certainly tempted her to change her ways.

  Molly was drifting very near sleep when the telephone rang. She gave a start, drawing in a quick breath as her head came up off of Dean’s chest.

  “My gosh, what time is it?” she asked as she rubbed her eyes and got up to answer the phone. She’d never fallen asleep in the company of a man—never felt at ease enough to. And here she barely knew Dean.

  He looked at his watch. “Eleven.” He sounded as groggy as she felt.

  Picking up the phone in the kitchen, Molly wasn’t overly surprised to hear Lily’s voice.

  “Sooo—” there was a suggestive lilt to her voice “—did you get home okay? I didn’t want to call too soon . . . in case you had company.”

  Molly decided to put an end to this right now. “As a matter of fact, I had quite an eventful drive home. There was an accident—”

  “Oh my God, are you all right?”

  “I didn’t say I had an accident. A guy on a bicycle was hit by an SUV . . . I tried to help, but he died.”

  “Jesus, how awful. Do you know who it was?”

  “No. An old guy, looked pretty bedraggled.”

  “Old guy on a bike . . . Buddy Biggs? Remember the Bible-banger who always hung out at the gate after football games trying to save everyone’s soul? Was it him? I can’t imagine who else would be out on a bicycle on a night like this.”

  The memory clicked in Molly’s brain. Buddy Biggs had ridden around town on his bicycle shouting for people to repent for as long as Molly could remember. When she was a kid, he used to circle the perimeter fence around the park swimming pool on that bicycle, reciting Bible verses at the top of his lungs. She never looked directly at him, for fear of inviting a lecture, so she couldn’t say for certain what he looked like, even when she’d lived here. She had always just had a general impression of grubby craziness. He’d seemed ancient then; she’d just assumed he was long gone by now.

  “It might have been.”

  “Dad will be upset.”

  “Really?” What connection could her father—a bar owner—have with a mentally unbalanced religious fanatic? Dad didn’t even go to church.

  “Oh yeah. Dad pretty much takes care of the old guy. Leaves a boxed dinner outside the back door of the Crossing House every day at five o’clock. I’m not sure how it all got started—it happened while I was in Chicago. It’s really weird, neither one of them will admit it’s going on. Faye doesn’t even understand it.”

  “That’s Dad, always looking out for someone else—as long as it’s not a family member who ‘disappointed’ him.”

  Lily sighed. “You really should call him. You can use this as an excuse.”

  “I don’t need an excuse. Besides, nothing’s changed with me.” She lowered her voice. “I still have a baby and no husband. Can’t see what my calling him will do. He can call me.”

  “I suppose one of these days one of you stubborn mules will budge,” Lily said with an uncharacteristic biting tone.

  Molly didn’t respond.

  Lily, in a confrontation-avoiding fashion much more like herself, abandoned that avenue and returned to her original path of discussion. “So, Dean Coletta seems nice.”

  “Yes.” Too nice. In just a couple of days, she’d really grown to like him. In a few more, he’d be gone to New York, or Istanbul, or wherever his job would take him next.

  “I think he’s interested in you.”

  “I’m a good small-town coming-home story,” Molly said dismissively, trying to keep her voice low enough that Dean didn’t hear without tipping her sister off to the fact that he was sitting in her living room.

  Although, inside Molly decided she wouldn’t mind at all if Dean was truly “interested.” But it was all too new to know. Maybe he kissed every woman he spent an evening alone with. Maybe the kisses they shared were ordinary to him, not the sky-rocketing pyrotechnics they were for her.

  She finished with, “Besides, you thought Brian Mitchell was interested in me.”

  “Oh, Brian’s interested all right. He was very upset that you left the dinner before he had a chance to talk to you.”

  Molly gave an exasperated sigh. “Honestly, Lily.” Maybe her sister was just anxious to get her married off, making the baby less of an issue for gossip.

  “You can’t fight love,” Lily said.

  “Yes I can.” For some peculiar reason, she thought of the odd music she’d heard while at Kingston’s. “Have you ever heard music on Fiddler’s Hill?”

  Lily laughed softly. “Actually, I think I did once . . . a long time ago.”

  “Who were you with?” The question came out without thought.

  “Clay. We were kids, and I was with Clay. But I’m sure it was just an overactive teenage imagination.”

  “Probably.”

  “Why do you ask?”

&n
bsp; “I just remembered the old legend and was curious.”

  “Did you hear it? I think you did. Who were you with?” Lily was picking up steam.

  “Uh-oh, gotta go, I hear Nicholas,” she lied. “Talk to you later.”

  Curious. It had to be a fluke—or her imagination.

  But Dean had heard it, too.

  She brushed away the thought as she returned to the living room and found him standing in front of the fireplace, looking at the only thing sitting on the mantle: her Tinkerbell clock.

  Dean leaned his face close to the little glass-domed clock and watched Tinkerbell fly back and forth on her fairy wings. The presence of this childish decoration was a surprising contrast to the pragmatic woman who lived here. He might have guessed she’d bought it for the baby, but it looked old.

  He kept an ear on the telephone conversation in the kitchen. He couldn’t help it really, the empty house conducted sound like a megaphone. Molly was telling someone about the accident. Then something about her dad. When he heard Molly mention Brian’s name, he strained to hear more clearly, but she seemed to be making an effort to muffle her voice. Jealousy nipped at his heart. He tried to logic his way around it, but it remained there like a splinter.

  He stared at Tinkerbell, trying to let her soothing motion erase a feeling of possessiveness he had no right to have.

  Molly surprised him by speaking; he hadn’t noticed her return to the room. “My father gave me that when I was five.”

  He looked at her, framed by the backlight from the kitchen with her dark hair mussed from their activities on the floor. The sight made him want to finish what they’d started, to make Brian Mitchell disappear from her mind altogether. But he’d made a promise, so he didn’t give in, throw her to the floor and ravish her. Instead he ignored his own desire and tried to carry on a conversation like a civilized person. “I met your father.”

  Straightening, she said, “You did? At the Crossing House?”

  “Yeah. Nice man.” Dean leaned his shoulder against the mantle and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Yes, he is.” There was a grudging tone to her voice.