“But there now,” she went on, blithely talking over him in the way of those with bad hearing. “You Benedict boys never could keep anything from me. Remember the time old man Tweed’s prize watermelon came up missing from his patch the night before the State Fair judging? He was fit to be tied, but I never let on how I saw the culprits with my own eyes while coming from prayer meeting. It was you, Beau and Trey, plain as day. You boys dropped that big old melon and broke it open, trying to see if you could pick it up, so you two just took it off and ate it. You couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven at the time. And then there was the night—”
Willing to forget how she’d come to be there in his need to head off more embarrassing stories, Lance interrupted. “I don’t think you’ve met Amanda Caret, Granny. She lived next door to you for a short while.”
“Oh, yes, I know quite well,” she said, putting out her arthritic hand while twinkling up at Mandy. “How could I miss such a pretty new addition to our boring old neighborhood? And I most certainly recall the way you and Lance hustled away in my Mercury. Oh, yes, I heard all about it from my neighbor across the street. What a sight, with the tires squealing, gravel flying and bullets popping. Just like in the movies!”
“A little too much like it,” Mandy answered with dry humor.
“But it must have been exciting, all the same. There you were, with barely a stitch to wear between you, thrown together in fear of your lives. And then it happened again, though the two of you weren’t quite so lucky this time around. Oh, yes, I’ve heard all about it from Zeni. Such a dear, thoughtful girl. Pretty, too, under the weird colored hair, though I do wish she’d get rid of that nose ring before it gets infected and she loses her whole nose. Why I remember—”
“What’s this you’ve brought us?” Lance asked in desperation as he lifted the plastic wrap on the platter he held. “It wouldn’t be tea cakes, would it?”
“Now you know perfectly well it is. You never could resist my special tea cakes, and I didn’t get to bake them for you while you were with me a few days ago.” She turned to Mandy. “They’re made with real butter, none of that imitation stuff, and real vanilla. Real molasses, too. It’s hard to find real molasses without that nasty sulfur added, you know.”
“They smell wonderful, and I’m sure they’re delicious with iced tea,” Mandy said, throwing herself into the conversational breach as she got to her feet. “Why don’t I bring some out for us? Meanwhile, you can have my chair. No, no, sit down, please. It’s no trouble at all since it’s already made.”
Lance, relinquishing the platter as Mandy reached for it, thought her offer of hospitality might be more of an escape than the support he’d first thought. He watched her disappear inside with a sinking feeling in his chest.
“Such a lovely girl,” Granny said, her shrewd old eyes resting on him as she sank into the chair Mandy had vacated. “Yes, and so sad about them finding her husband dead. I knew that man’s name was familiar when I first heard it, but it was only this morning that it came to me.”
“That man?” It was an effort to focus on what his visitor was saying.
“Her husband, of course. He ran for office, state senator, representative, something like that. Cost him a mint, and he lost anyway. Folks said he used money he didn’t have, so wound up in debt to the wrong people.”
Lance stared at Granny Chauvin for a second with his mouth open. She knew everyone, heard everything, and was sharp as a shiny new tack at over ninety. Her memory might be random, but it was spacious and usually reliable. You never knew what she might pull out of it.
“You sure it was Bruce Caret?”
“Of course I’m sure. Rhymes with carrot, you know. I thought he looked like one, too, skinny at the bottom, round shouldered, no neck and not a lot of hair on top.”
Actually, it rhymed with beret, but Lance was willing to let her be right if it made her happy. “When was this election?”
“Oh, eight years back, I think. I remember the preacher at the church down near the bayou left town about that same time. Seventy if he was a day, the old goat, but found at the ratty motel outside town with some female from his congregation. He was naked as a jay bird except for his favorite silk necktie. Had a Gideon Bible in his hand, reading it to her to all the time he did his business. His poor wife could hardly hold her head up, though I understand she went away with him.”
“Granny,” he began.
“Oh, I know you don’t care about old gossip, but that’s how I recall the election Caret lost, see? One thing is connected to the other.”
He did see. The election must have taken place before Mandy and Caret were married, but still provided food for thought in light of the way the man died.
He had no chance to pursue it, however, as Mandy returned with the iced tea along with paper napkins and small paper plates for the tea cakes. He wondered if she’d overheard what Granny Chauvin said. It wouldn’t be surprising, given their closeness to the door, though the hum of the A/C might have drowned it out. It didn’t matter, except he didn’t care to have her think they were discussing the case behind her back.
He rose from his chair to unfold the small table that leaned against the RV, setting it up as a place for Mandy to unload her burden. She accepted it with a smile, and then turned to pull forward another chair, setting it next to their elderly visitor.
“Why, my dear, what a pretty hair clasp!” Granny exclaimed as she caught sight of the hair drawn back at the nape of Mandy’s neck. “It looks like real tortoiseshell, something I’ve not seen in years. My mother had a Spanish hair comb made of it, though without the pretty gold trim on yours. My father bought it for her back in the Twenties, because she promised not to bob off her long hair. Men love long hair, you know, no matter how straight and stringy it might be. Don’t you agree, Lance? Don’t you love Mandy’s hair?”
“It’s gorgeous,” he answered, more to keep up his end of the conversation than anything else. Not that it wasn’t the truth, “But it’s her hair. She can wear it anyway she pleases.”
“Oh, you.” Granny flapped a hand at him. “And I guess, being the gentleman you are, you’d say she looks gorgeous whatever she does.”
He had to smile at that, because it was also true on more levels than one.
She sent him her gamine grin before turning back to Mandy. “I don’t mean to be a nuisance, dear, but would it ruin your hairdo if I took a look at your tortoiseshell piece?”
Mandy obligingly unfastened the clasp, letting her hair slip forward down one shoulder as she handed it over. It took real effort for Lance to tear his gaze away from the silky tresses that unwound slowly until they lay in a shimmering skein over her breast. His tongue curled at the thought of searching with it for a rosy nipple among them, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
Granny Chauvin was oblivious to his predicament, thank goodness. She turned the clasp back and forth in her hand, while a reminiscent smile played over her wrinkled lips. “Oh, yes, a fine example, and similar in color to the one I have, except for that heavy gold flower. You should be proud of it, Mandy, dear.”
“It seemed heavy when I first got it, but I never notice it now,” she answered, taking the clasp as Granny handed it back, gathering up her hair into it again.
“It’s all in what you’re used to, isn’t it? It’s funny, but only old ladies had long hair they kept braided or coiled and pinned on top their heads, while we fast young things showed how modern we were by cutting ours off. Nowadays, it’s the young women who grow theirs out as long as possible or add those extension things, while we white-haired seniors still whack ours off as short as we can get it!”
“I’m sure shorter is easier,” Mandy commented with great diplomacy.
“Yes, and a lot cooler when I work in my yard this time of year. Oh, but you really have such lovely thick hair, my dear. It must be marvelous when you put it up. I should bring you that comb of my mother’s. Tortoiseshell is perfect with your coloring
.”
“I couldn’t accept a family heirloom,” Mandy protested.
“Well, heaven knows I’ve no use for it.”
“We’ve just met, it wouldn’t be right.”
Granny’s smile was whimsical. “But I’ve known Lancelot since he was a toddler. Because of it, I predict I’ll soon know you much better.”
There was more in the same vein as they sat eating tea cakes and drinking iced tea there in the dim garage as if it were a living room and they were entertaining a guest. Lance saw no reason to disabuse Granny Chauvin of her assumption that he and Mandy were a couple. What could it hurt, after all? Explanations might allow the sharp old lady to discover more than she knew already, maybe enough to put her in danger. After all, she lived next door to the house where Mandy had been staying.
The main thing, however, was that Granny was lonesome, and he and Mandy were going nowhere anytime soon. Sitting with the two ladies, listening to their lively exchanges while putting in a few words now and then, was far too enjoyable to bring to an end.
He may not touch, but he does look.
Mandy could not get Zeni’s claim out of her head. It kept her awake for hours the night before, and filtered through her dreams when she finally slept. She heard it echoing in her mind at odd moments, a potent distraction. Even now, as she sat chatting, trying to be attentive to what was going on around her, it drifted into her consciousness. Her gaze moved to Lance, resting in half-tantalized speculation on the turn of his jaw, the bandage on his head, the shape and strength of his long fingers.
What would it take to persuade Lance she was touchable?
She had considered that possibility before, though for different reasons. Somehow, she’d been sidetracked. Getting chased all over the state while dodging goons and gunshots could do that. Terror that she might be the cause of a man bleeding to death had been a deterrent, too. Yet there was more to it. Her half-formed intention had run up against Lance’s steely code of honor. More importantly, she’d come to respect that in him, and was reluctant to do anything that might change it.
This was different.
She didn’t want to test him this time, had no need to see what he was like, since she knew all she required. She only wanted to be closer to him, to the natural caring and concern that was so much a part of him. For however brief a time, she longed to feel secure in his arms. Was that too much to ask?
Was it really, even if Trey had warned her away from any such thing?
Life is short, Zeni had said.
She vastly preferred Zeni’s thinking over Trey’s.
She didn’t expect forever. One night, two, maybe a week? She would treasure whatever she was allowed.
It seemed she might never have a better chance than now, while they were confined together by his need to keep her under wraps and slowly healing injury. Close quarters should help, and they didn’t get much closer than the baby RV.
Lance had touched her once or twice; he’d held her, kissed her, even if it was for reasons other than true desire. In spite of it, she wasn’t sure how to appeal to him.
She didn’t think he would appreciate it if she simply crawled naked into his bed. She could be wrong, of course, but it seemed that might activate his extreme ideas of right and wrong.
She could ask for what she wanted, of course. If you went by scenes in movies, some men preferred the direct approach. They were flattered if a woman walked up to them and propositioned them in crude, unmistakable language.
That wasn’t her style. She needed to know she was wanted before she dropped her defenses. An encounter had to mean something beyond the sweaty exchange of bodily fluids. She’d had meaningless sex with Bruce, even if it was in marriage, and didn’t want to go there again.
How, then, was she going to convince Lance to take her to bed?
“Honey?”
Granny Chauvin must have said something to her, and she was so lost in her own thoughts she’d barely heard. Good grief.
“Sorry,” she said with a contrite smile. “I was thinking of something else.”
“Never you mind, dear. It’s time I took myself off, and I was telling Lance I’m leaving the rest of the tea cakes. I’m sure there’s more than enough for breakfast for the two of you, maybe a couple of times. I also wanted to tell you how much I’ve enjoyed this nice long visit, and ask if I may come again.”
“Please do.” A bit of extra fervor colored her voice as she tried to make amends. “It was nice to finally meet you after being neighbors for most of a week.”
“You’ll see me before long, then, since I must bring you that comb.”
“Don’t worry about that, really. I’d feel guilty taking it.”
Granny reached and took her hand, patting it gently, her wise old eyes filled with kindness. “I want you to have it, my dear. I really do.”
Mandy walked with Lance to the garage’s rear door to see their visitor off. Afterward, they turned back to their temporary home. She picked up the glasses they had used and took them inside. He put away the table and chairs. Both were preoccupied, disinclined to talk. A frown made a groove between Lance’s brows, as if he was perturbed over the ease with which Granny Chauvin had located them. Or perhaps his headache had returned; it was hard to tell. Mandy offered medication, and then busied herself with a pretense of domesticity while he took it.
Yet all the while, a single thought kept running through her mind.
Action or words?
Words or action?
Which would be the best way to get past the barrier of Lance’s sense of duty? Which would persuade Lance to take her to bed? And how long should she wait to be certain he was well enough for it?
Try as she might, she could not come up with the answers.
Chapter 14
Forty-eight hours later, Mandy stood at the sink, washing the RV’s real glasses and forks used for the dinner of beef tips and gravy with rice provided in foam boxes from the Watering Hole. Her mind wasn’t on what she was doing, but on Lance. Slouched on the bench seat beside the door with his long legs stretched out across the narrow walkway, he scowled at the toes of his running shoes.
As relaxed as he was, he was still an impressive male specimen, the planes of his chest layered with muscle, a well-defined six-pack across his abdomen and his belly flat and hard. Not that she hadn’t been hyperaware of it for some time—how could she not be?
Neither of them could move nor breathe without the other knowing it. The wonder was that they hadn’t got on each other’s nerves, though she thought that might be coming.
Inactivity seemed to be weighing on Lance; the better he felt, the more restless he became. His edginess and short answers to simple questions left her ready to snap at him in return.
“You have a headache again, don’t you,” she said.
His glance in her direction was brief. “It’s not that bad.”
“Must not be that good, either.”
“My scalp itches now that it’s healing, but otherwise it’s better.”
That seemed reasonable enough. Still, pain was pain. “I know you don’t want the strong stuff, but a couple more ibuprofen can’t hurt.”
He gave a moody shrug.
Fine. Let him be macho.
Or maybe not? She let the dishwater out of the sink and rinsed and dried her hands as she thought about it.
“Massaging your neck and shoulders might help. I could try, if you like.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know, but it’s not as if I have anything more important going on here.”
“Whatever you want.”
Stepping into the bathroom, she picked up the hand lotion dispenser from the narrow counter top. With it in hand, she turned back to Lance. “Take off your shirt.”
Something flickered in the dark brown depths of his eyes that made her aware of how that might have sounded. Heat rose to her cheekbones, and then grew hotter as she realized she’d created a possible opportunity
for what she’d been thinking about off and on for days. She hesitated, torn between taking advantage and retreating before it was too late.
The decision was taken from her as he sat up and reached for the back neckline of his T-shirt, pulling it off over his head.
For an instant, she wondered at her gall in thinking he might be interested enough to take her to bed. It fled as he spoke.
“Front or back?”
“What?”
“Which way do you want me?”
The quizzical light in his eyes was almost her undoing. It was as if he invited her to take that question any way she pleased. She wasn’t about to go there; it was too unsettling, too risky for her peace of mind when the truth was she wanted him any way she could have him.
Mandy pumped lotion into her hand and then set the bottle on the table. “Back to me.”
He obliged her, twisting on the bench with one knee bent and resting on the bench cushion for balance. She stepped closer, rubbing her palms together to warm the lotion. It was a little awkward to reach him while standing, so she put a knee on the bench behind him, easing closer before placing her hands on his wide back.
Goose bumps traveled across his shoulders and he jerked a little at the first touch. She felt the shock of it run up her arms to her elbows as well. Inhaling in tried and silent endurance, she smoothed her hands over his corded muscles below his nape and back to the center again, sensing the knots caused by tension and pain. Gently, she kneaded these with her thumbs, waiting for the moment when they became pliant, elongating as they relaxed. Her fingertips brushed the thick whorls of hair that grew along the nape of his neck. She threaded through them again, enjoying their crisp yet silky texture.
“You’re good at this,” he said, turning his head back and forth a little as tension eased from him. “Did you do it for your husband?”
It was the last thing she expected. Mandy stilled a moment before continuing with her steady strokes. “Bruce had professional massages every week. It was my mother who had headaches, or actually migraines.”
Lancelot of the Pines (Louisiana Knights Book 1) Page 15